Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ONE

She hated Eastern Europe. Every few hundred miles it was a new language, new customs, new rules for blending in. You couldn’t kick a stone without hitting some protected building, and it was anyone’s guess which side of what war the memorials were for. And that was before Earth itself had become a side.

She missed those simple irritations now.

The ship pitched beneath her boots, groaning with age. Fifteen-foot waves rolled endlessly in every direction, slate-grey and swallowing. Each dip of the bow could have been its last.

She wasn’t afraid. She hadn’t been plagued by such an emotion in years. But there was a nervousness coiled low in her belly like a warning. The deck was slick and she didn’t like the way the metal flexed under the strain.

Worse was the stench of their fear. It clung to the men around her—weak, cheap-suited, cigarette-stained men who took the lowest pay for the highest risk. Idiots. Fools. Desperate to survive without once considering how truly unlikely it was. They’d sold their souls for little more than half-filled bellies.

All the while, they were protecting the largest hoard of stolen wealth on the planet.

Her master found the irony entertaining.

Covered fingers curled around the railing—ordinary steel, old and eaten by the decades of salt spray. It trembled beneath her grip.

Its weakness. Not hers.

As though her thoughts had offended it, her suit flexed and shivered.

Vibranium folded over her skin in sleek, liquid segments, seamless as breath. The mask covered her mouth and nose, but left her eyes and brow bare. It didn’t hide her. It completed her.

She wore more than the men around her could imagine. More than any government or private buyer owned. A weapon disguised as a woman.

The storm clawed at them—rain flashing sideways, the deck groaning under every wave—but her body moved with unnatural calm. The exoskeleton tracked each shift of muscle and breath. Waiting. Mirroring. Not quite alive, but not inert either.

She was twitchy. Restless. Just like her suit.

They’d been forged with the same intention. Engineered to outlast, outmatch, outlive. Neither asked questions. Both had been sharpened by the same hand.

The wait was almost over.

By the time a fist had pounded on the inside of the door—summoning her—her hair was soaked through, clinging to her throat like ink-drenched tentacles. Sentient. Knowing. Trying, uselessly, to hold her back.

It might have been amusing, in another life.

Her finger shot up and chopped the hair away, soaked strands whipping back like a burned beast.

The handle groaned as it turned. She pivoted to face it.

In the blackness of the night, the interior of the ship looked almost inviting—furnace roaring, shadows cast gold by the open flame. Heat spilled into the storm, thick and stifling. Steam clung to the corridor walls. Humidity so high, she might as well have stayed outside.

Sweat beaded on her brow, mixing with saltwater and rain. She didn’t wipe it away.

She followed the worm sent to fetch her.

He stumbled more than he stepped, his once-fine suit clinging to him like a plastic bag. The silk shirt was nearly transparent, plastered to the pale skin beneath. Ink sprawled across his chest—uncharacteristic, old, recognisable.

The mark didn’t belong to someone like him.

Scrawny. Myopic. A thick pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose. He favoured his left leg—muscle imbalance, half an inch difference. An injury that hadn’t healed right.

There were weak links in every chain.

If she’d been tasked with dismantling this one, he would have been her first target.

A brain, not brawn. Fragile and predictable. The type who bled information the moment pressure was applied. Fine wine ran through his veins—she could smell it. Her mouth watered to picture its richness.

Her eyes chased him hungrily even as they reached Ulysses’ office. There were others there—men she should have been assessing—but it had been too long since she’d tasted fresh blood in the air.

She didn’t need a body. Just a drop. A whiff. That metallic thread that fed something deeper inside of her.

“Wraith.”

The command cut through the red mist like a blade.

She became aware of her posture by degrees—muscles coiled to pounce, chest tilted forward, lip curled back.

A predator stalking prey that hadn’t been assigned.

With effort, she straightened. Her chin lifted half a fraction before her gaze shifted to her master, waiting for instruction.

None came.

Ulysses only smiled, satisfied that her focus had returned to him. He turned to the others in the room and began to pace, slow and theatrical. He wanted them to see it—her—the sharp snap of her obedience. Like a purebred displaying its pedigree.

And when they didn’t praise her fast enough, he raised a hand and gestured toward where she stood.

“Behold, gentlemen. My creation.” His grin split wide, chin lowered, eyes gleaming under his brow. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“’Zis is ze Wraith?” one asked, German—northeast. The accent was guarded. And entirely unimpressed.

She kept her eyes on her master.

Ulysses didn’t flinch. “Aye. That’s her. I saw room for improvement on your model.” His tone sharpened, like a knife drawn across glass. “Wraith not only survived the serum—she evolved.”

He turned back to her, eyes lit with awe. Not the soft kind. The kind reserved for machines built for war. Admired for their presence and how cost effective they were.

“She left behind everything that makes humanity weak,” he said, voice hushed and reverent. “And then, I armoured her.”

He turned back to the group, his smile gone.

“She’s my most protected dog. My most loyal. And the hardest to call off. So don’t insult me by taking the piss.”

A beat. Then steel.

“There is no second offer.”

The moment Ulysses gestured for her to step forward, she obeyed without pause. Her body moved as if pulled by invisible strings—fluent, precise, automatic. His eyes followed the motion, his own, very different hunger flickering in them. The kind she’d grown used to. Not understood—just endured.

Her existence had been defined by obedience. That was all that mattered.

The room felt heavy. Thick with tension that she didn't registered. Only the scent: alcohol, sweat, the metallic reek of rust and oil. Ulysses' gaze never left her and she didn’t shrink under it. She didn’t notice the way it lingered. Didn’t notice how slowly it dragged across her body.

“Vibranium exoskeleton,” he said, flicking a knuckle against her shoulder.

“It isn’t very subtle,” the taller of the two men said, English. Southern.

Ulysses didn’t respond to him. “Remove your suit,” he said softly.

To anyone else, it might have sounded like a suggestion. A request.

It wasn't.

The sound of metal shifting echoed through the silence. One by one, the panels receded—liquid and gleaming—folding away like a snake shedding its skin. The exposure registered only as temperature. She didn’t look down. She focused only his voice and the faint, mocking smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

His fingers moved along the seams of her spine, tracing the lines of the panels where the suit had nestled itself beneath artificial skin. He followed each one slowly, like he was reading a map he already knew by heart. Just because he could. Just because he liked it.

She didn't move. He liked it when she was still.

The air between them thickened. She marked his breathing—how it slowed. Deepened. His hand pressed flat to the small of her back. Almost lost in thought. And lingering, as he often did.

She felt the contact spread—heatless, measured, and deliberate. His thumb shifted slightly, stroking along the edge of one of the lower disks. The room around them was silent. The others didn’t move and she didn’t look at them. They weren’t relevant.

Ulysses stepped closer and she adjusted her weight to accommodate him and awaited further instruction.

“Turn,” he said after a moment more.

And she did. In a fluid, practiced movement.

He circled her with the same interest a man might give to a painting. His eyes moved slowly, pausing where there was no need. No hardware to be inspected or damage that needed tending to. Her skin registered the path of his attention before she did.

He made no comment. Only observed with the same intensity that he always did.

Then reached again—hand dragging from the back of her neck to the dip of her spine and over her tailbone. It wasn’t corrective. It wasn’t to check placement or balance or symmetry. She didn’t know what it was. But it didn’t matter. Her body was a tool and it moved when told. Held still when not.

His hand rested on her shoulder—skin to skin—and settled there. When he finally spoke, his voice was low enough that it barely needed to be heard.

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

Ulysses’ tone was as soft as ever, but there was darkness coiled beneath it—a possessiveness that never reached the surface. He was daring them to disagree a second time with something he knew to be fact.

She had been designed to be beautiful. It made her more efficient and deadly. Simple-minded creatures required simple draws. There was no need for praise. No need for feelings she lacked the language to name.

But Ulysses wanted it anyway.

The men didn’t argue this time. They nodded in tight, shallow movements. As much acknowledgement and submission as they could stomach to satisfy him. To move on.

Ulysses blinked, and the trance lifted. He was all business again. Something low in her belly unwound in response. She didn’t understand what or why, so she didn’t linger on it.

“Fused to the spine. Fully retractable,” he explained, stepping back. His hand stilled against her shoulder—then finally dropped away. “And yours, for the agreed price.”

Wraith’s ears pricked at that, but she showed no outward signs of interest.

“If she’s so perfect,” the Englishman asked, “why do you need more?”

“You lost yours, didn’t you?” Ulysses’ tone turned indulgent. Patronising. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Their heart rates climbed in response. She could hear them—three distinct rhythms, quickening with testosterone and tension.

“I’m a realist, Mr. White. I don’t take unnecessary risks. Only a fool wouldn’t insure his greatest investment.”

The weight in the room shifted. They all felt it. She could hear it in their breath, their posture, the subtle rasp of cloth over stiffening bodies.

“Two super soldiers,” the German said, voice clipped, “in exchange for ze Winter Soldier. Payment upon delivery.”

Comprehension settled fast and she fought to keep her eyes forward. Ulysses wasn’t selling her; he was loaning her to HYDRA. To retrieve their escaped asset.

The Winter Soldier—

Ulysses let out a short, sharp whistle, and the command silenced all independent thought like a switch.

Her suit didn’t activate.

She didn’t need it to overpower her target.

She crossed the room in three silent steps.

The German barely had time to react before her hand locked around his throat and lifted him clean off the floor. He kicked once—instinct, not resistance—and then the gurgling started. His gut sagged, adding just enough weight to quicken the process. His legs dangled. The toes of shoes squeaking against the floor for all the grip they could get.

A gun cocked at her temple. She didn’t flinch.

The shooter hesitated, his hand shaking as though it were the first time he’d ever aimed it at anyone. It would take him some time to work up the necessary stomach to pull the trigger. Meanwhile, his comrade suffocated under his own weight. The calculations weren’t in his favour. The mission would complete itself before he could act.

“Delivering the Winter Soldier to you would be a gift in good faith, gentlemen,” Ulysses said calmly, his tone light, his eyes on his shoes. “I expect my new puppies before the week is out.”

She tilted her head, observing the man in her grip. His eyes had begun to roll. Blood vessels burst behind the whites like split fruit.

“Hail Hydra…” he wheezed, beginning to go limp.

The pistol lowered.

“Alright, alright. Agreed,” Mr. White said tightly, a panicked edge to his tone.

She didn’t release her quarry Ulysses whistled again. Short. Sharp. Final.

*

Despite the storm, the Englishman, the worm, and the barely-breathing German with a collapsed windpipe took their leave by air not long after. The negotiations had continued in fragments—drifting, echoing, dull—but she let them pass through her.

The dissonance of the moment—a body on display, a mind stranded somewhere else—faded with the sound of boots, of rotors, of doors sealed behind gloved hands.

A mission was coming. For the first time in weeks.

It wasn’t excitement that stirred, but an urgency. A quiet coiling she dared not feed—not while there were eyes left on her. It could only be named when they were alone. When the more…human faults of hers were no longer under watch.

She waited.

When Ulysses returned to his office, the tension had calcified in her limbs. He saw it instantly. She locked eyes with him, and he raised a hand to silence her before a single word escaped.

“I have few answers for you now, liefie,” he said, his tone dismissive and distant, already thumbing through a mess of half-folded documents. “The moment the rain lets up, you leave.”

Her brow furrowed. A flicker of resistance sparked beneath the surface.

“You expect me to embark on this mission with so little—”

“I expect you,” he said, voice clipped, eyes narrowing, “to do as you’re told.”

The words landed like a slap.

He barely let it land.

“HYDRA expects the obedience you just demonstrated. At least until they pay. What you do after that…” He waved a hand, already bored. “Not my concern. Do you understand?”

It wasn’t a riddle. He hadn’t spoken in tongues. But the bluntness, the ease with which he dismissed her concern, left something sour in her gut.

He watched her a moment longer, then raised a single finger in warning.

“Fuck this up, popke,” he said, almost gently, “and I’ll let them have you.”

Her spine stiffened.

“Those quacks adore an enhanced they can cut open. And you—” he smiled faintly, admiringly, “you’re very hard to break. That’s what they’ll like best.”

The room tilted slightly. Not physically, but perceptually.

He had called her beautiful an hour ago. Had spoken of her like a weapon worth starting a war over. But now—this.

The threat didn’t sting because it was new. It stung because it wasn’t. If she pushed him, he would only go further. Become crueller.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. She hadn’t felt fear in years, but what she felt now—what she always felt in Ulysses’ presence—was not far off.

A tool. That’s all she was again. Like his drills. Like his men. She was a way to get what he wanted and he had no compunction about letting her know that.

A silence fell—heavy, choking. She said nothing. Still, her body stood to attention even as her mind reeled.

Then Ulysses sighed. The weariness in it was performative. Measured.

“I’m sorry, liefie,” he said at last, softer now, as if it were regret. “You just make me so angry sometimes. When you don’t listen like I know you can.”

His gaze swept her once. Turning cold and assessing again.

“I asked you to prepare. And you’re still standing here. I want to trust you,” he added, shaking his head. “But you’re not giving me many reasons.”

An apology cloaked in disdain—calculated to make her feel both guilty and desperate to earn his approval.

Something tightened in her throat. She didn’t know if it was grief, or shame, or anger pretending to be both.

Was he truly sorry? Or was this just another way to pull a promise from her lips? A darker thought followed. One that slid under the others like a knife beneath skin. Had he ever really trusted her? Or had he only ever trusted himself?

She knew what manipulation was. She’d used it herself—refined it, wielded it. It should be the sharpest tool in any arsenal. She wasn’t so naïve that she didn’t recognise it when it was turned on her.

But it had to be rooted in something real to hit so hard.

He loved her. He did. He was proud of her. He only withdrew when she failed to listen. When she forgot how to follow without thought.

She said nothing because that's what she knew he wanted. His words closed around her chest like a collar.

Just because Wraith knew what manipulation was and how to do it, didn’t mean she was immune to its power. Especially when wielded by the very person who taught her how to do it.

“The Winter Soldier is not like anyone you’ve faced before,” Ulysses said gently. The same voice he used in private. Only ever in private. Low enough that no recording could ever catch the contours of it.

“I didn’t lie to them,” he went on, crossing silently behind his desk. “You are superior to him in every way. But only if you behave as I taught you.”

She watched him approach. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t realised she’d moved until his hands were on her shoulders, the heat of him pressing through the arms of her suit.

The vibranium hummed, agitated.

“Feel nothing,” he murmured, giving her a firm shake. “No fear. No regret. No fatigue.”

The words landed like a switch being flipped. Her face stilled and went slack. Her spine straightened. The air inside of her lungs became clean again. Ordered.

This was her mission. She would not—could not—fail.

“Yes, Master.”

He smiled—finally warm—and slid his hands up to cup her face. Rough fingertips passed over her cheeks and then into her hair. She could smell the German’s sweat on his skin.

“I know you’ll make me proud. You are all but my blood,” he whispered. Then pressed his lips to hers—a brief kiss. A seal. A claim. A reward. “Go now. Pack lightly,” he added. “And do not return without him.”

She took his hand and bowed her head to it.

“Yes, Father.”

*

It was a day and a half later that the storm weakened enough for HYDRA to send a chopper to retrieve her for briefing.

The deck was slick with rain and brine when the transport touched down, the air sharp with the metallic tang of weathered steel. Grey light bruised the horizon. Visibility had returned, but only just—like the world was reluctant to reveal itself again.

Wraith said nothing as she approached. There was no farewell. No ceremony. Just the shriek of rotors and the sour stink of exhaust.

She boarded in silence.

The inside of the chopper was cramped and spartan, the seats worn thin, the windows fogged from within. The agent HYDRA had sent with it sat across from her, strapped in tight, a rifle upright between his knees. His eyes flicked to her once—just once—and then snapped forward again, resolute. Impersonal.

She didn’t know his name. Didn’t care. But part of her hoped he’d been friends with the one she’d strangled. It would explain the way his jaw clicked. The slight shift of his weight. The faint tension humming through his legs like a predator was watching him from across the cabin.

It made her smile. Satisfaction settling predatorially.

She was almost giddy when he flinched.

Ulysses had told her to be the perfect weapon. HYDRA expected no less. For now, she would obey. She would serve. But it was temporary. Fleeting. There could be no shared command. No divided leash. HYDRA wanted order—control at any cost. Meanwhile, Ulysses thrived on chaos, so long as he held the detonator.

The alliance wouldn’t last and that was by design. On both sides.

She wasn’t meant to make friends. She was meant to remind them that Ulysses Klaue held the leash—and if they tugged too hard, it would snap bones.

The helicopter lurched as it climbed higher.

Below them, snow swallowed the earth in endless white. Frozen rivers braided through black rock. There were no lights. No roads. No signs of life.

HYDRA liked to build their nests deep. Far from oversight. Far from consequence. Wherever they held creatures like her, she would not see it from the air.

The silence inside the cabin thickened as time went on. Cold air bled through the seams of the hull and threatened to coax gooseflesh, even through her suit. Her fingers curled against her thighs, vibrating faintly.

She didn't know when it started—couldn't pin-point a moment the power started to shift—but with the change in air came a transfer of control.

When HYDRA had the upper hand, they waited. Stalled. Controlled from a distance. And by the time they finally gave you the facts, there was nothing left to negotiate.

Nothing left to do but obey.

They were getting close now. And despite herself, something ugly twisted low in her gut. Not trepidation. Not yet. But close enough to make her lean back and lock her eyes on the agent across from her.

Just in case.

There was no visible landmark, no clear change in terrain—only more and more white. An endless, hostile sheet of snow that hadn’t wavered in hours. It wasn’t until the skids were mere feet from the ground that the surface split open with a groan, revealing a wide tunnel that dropped into blackness. The descent was long, cold and unnatural.

The light vanished completely. For several minutes, there was nothing but unending, uncompromising dark.

Not even her enhanced vision could cut through it. She felt the blindness like a weight behind her eyes, as though something had been taken. Her other senses flared in response—every shift in the air, every scrape of rubber on metal, every human breath was tracked and filed. Across from her, she could hear the escort agent sat with his spine straight and shoulders light—pressed back into his seat with practiced stillness. Relieved, no doubt, to no longer be the one outgunned.

And Wraith?

She was…unsettled. Not concerned. But close enough to taste it.

She’d come willingly. On the word of Ulysses. On the word of three men who claimed HYDRA still breathed. In truth, she’d doubted it more often than a loyal watchdog should. Their last defeat had been rather spectacular. 

When the lights returned, they did so all at once. White, sterile, and painfully blinding.

She winced before she could stop herself.

Then, a moment later, when her vision adjusted enough to scan her surroundings, she felt her eyebrows raise.

The hangar stretched like a wound beneath the mountain. Tactical jets and modified aerial vehicles lined both sides of the runway in cold, perfect rows. The air was too dry. Too clean. It scraped her lungs with every breath. Her eyes scanned the length of the tunnel, following it all the way to the blast doors at each end.

There were no escape routes, she noticed.

There was no trust here. Not between temporary allies with conflicting ideals. That had always been understood, but now she could feel it—in her gut, in her teeth, in the base of her spine. Her only exit was hundreds of feet above her. Sealed.

She was trapped. And there was no better breeding ground for paranoia than that.

Her instincts were loud. Run. Hide. Find another way out. The sensation was so sharp it bordered on claustrophobia—and that, more than anything, was unfamiliar. She’d felt safer on a rusting oil rig surrounded by rotting men and shark-infested waters.

And then the door hissed open without warning

“Follow me,” came a voice—bored, male, already halfway down the ramp.

She didn’t move.

Her babysitter had already disembarked by the time she stuffed her paranoia far enough down to function. He glanced back at her with the smugness of a man who knew the balance had shifted and had finally recognised it. That he was the one who now held the leash.

He didn’t. But if she faltered and he mistook it for fear, his confidence would only grow. In another instance, instilling a false sense of security in him might prove to be useful, but she didn't know enough to take that risk now. 

And whilst she no longer stood on the side with the power, she was smart enough to know when to roll over.

Obedience, she reminded herself.

Ulysses’ voice echoed in her mind, compounding.

No fear. No regret. No fatigue.

She rose. Not slowly. Not stiffly. Precisely. Each manipulation of muscle calculated and controlled.

The bag at her feet remained untouched for a beat—until she slung it over one shoulder without looking. It contained nothing but a spare set of clothes, a burner ID, and twenty-eight dollars in worn bills. It wasn’t a lifeline. It wasn’t even a contingency.

She had no need for contingency—she wore vibranium. The strongest substance on the planet encased her, down to each digit and individual nail.

She was not fragile. She was not the hunted. She was the weapon. And she would walk into this hive the way she was forged to. Silent. Unshaken. And waiting to strike.

She passed her handler without slowing. He met her gaze with that newfound confidence—brittle, puffed up by proximity to power.

At the end of the walkway, a man in a white coat waited. A brain, she guessed. He had the same clean nervousness about him as the worm from the ship, though this one stood straighter. His glasses were rounder. His spine had less give. The type who’d been promised prestige and had just enough nerve to believe in it.

“This way, please,” he said. Russian. Thickly accented. Impeccably polite despite the lack of need for it.

She didn’t reply, just fell in line. Her boots echoed in the sterile corridor, crisp and clinical like everything else. Her handler followed close—too close. She could feel the heat of him behind her, the weight of him, the shallow aggression in each step.

It hit her by the third turn. A shift. Not in direction, but in atmosphere. Something was wrong. A pressure she hadn't noticed until she named it. The hairs on the back of her neck threatened to raise.

The quiet didn’t soothe. It pinned. The facility was too symmetrical. Too engineered. There was no randomness in the corners, no air that hadn’t been filtered. Her pulse picked up before she could stop it—just slightly—but she made no adjustments. Her posture didn’t change. Her expression stayed blank.

She was a weapon. Ulysses’ weapon. Now, theirs. HYDRA wanted results, and she would deliver. Whatever tests they demanded—whatever compliance they thought they could wring from her—she would provide it. For now.

But beneath it, something crawled in the back of her mind. A gut-deep sense that this wasn’t a mission. It was a trap. A web already strung.

And now, this far in, the only way out was through.

The door at the end hissed open.

Inside, the light hit like bleach. There were no windows and no secondary exits. Just a brutal, white room bathed in glare. Sterile to the point of soulless. Impeccably intentional. Far from empty, but a void in all the wrong ways.

Someone was waiting for her. Near a table loaded with instruments. No one explained them to her because no one needed to. Clearly, this was not a briefing, and her theory about mere tests morphed into a far too naïve conclusion.

The presence of HYDRA wasn’t in symbols or banners. It was in the precision and control of everything—down to the number of dust particles permitted in any ten-foot radius. The glass-clean cruelty of the laboratory. The weight of something vast and inevitable.

A chair sat at the centre, made of reinforced steel with grounded arms and a thousand wires braided into the floor. The centre of the spider's web.

A butcher’s throne.

She didn’t react. Not visibly. She only stared at the man across the room, and let him stare back.

Let him measure. She wouldn’t shrink. She wasn’t a person. She didn’t get to fear, or doubt. She obeyed.

“How is she, Markus?” he asked, his Russian lilt soft, almost amused.

“Stable and compliant, Doctor,” Markus said confidently, his back to her now.

“Excellent,” the doctor replied, near chipper. “Does she obey all commands?”

“I…haven’t tested it,” Markus admitted, glancing back with a faint crease of concern. “Stand on one leg, soldat,” he ordered.

It was pitiful—thin and unconvincing. Lacking the iron thread of true command. And so, she didn’t move. She wouldn’t shame Ulysses by obeying someone so unworthy. Her sneer landed with precision, and Markus took a step back.

A heavy hand found her shoulder. A warning from the handler.

The doctor burst into laughter—hearty, almost delighted—and it curdled the air. He clapped his hands, grinning as he approached, his stride full of intent and distinctly lacking any kind of nervous restraint. His eyes, when they found her up close, carried something sickening.

He stopped mere inches from her and she loathed that he towered over her, loathed the implication of dominance. She refused to lift her eyes and look up at him. Refused to give him anything.

“The next evolution, indeed,” he murmured. His fingers, smooth and inappropriate, curled beneath her chin, tipping her face up. Like she was something delicate. “What a specimen you are.”

“Yes, yes,” Markus interrupted, clearly of a different opinion to the doctor, as he scurried toward the chair in the centre of the room. “But I think we’d all be more comfortable if she were restrained, hm?”

The doctor tutted gently, releasing her chin so it dropped back into defiance. She didn't like that it felt like permission. As though her behaviour amused him.

“Where are your manners, Markus? She is our guest.” His hand, again unnecessary, brushed her hair over her shoulder in a mockery of gentleness. “Sit, moy dorogoy.”

Though she would have sooner bitten off her own tongue if she had a choice, she sat. Compliance was the directive. She was not here to think or question. For all she knew, this had been agreed upon in full—her orders signed, sealed, and delivered. Ulysses had given no explanation, only instruction.

The chair was not built for her. It had been made for something larger and decidedly more brutish. Each limb of the structure was cold metal, with reinforced shackles, built to hold something as unwilling as it was unyielding. As the clasps locked down, they did so loosely. Her thighs rattled in their restraints. Her ankles shifted. Her wrists, when bound, had too much give.

Markus noticed the discrepancy. She saw the bob of his throat as realisation settled.

Then came the leather—adjustable, less clinical. More personal.

“I take it you’ve gathered that you’re here for more than just the Winter Soldier?” the doctor asked, one thick brow lifting.

“Any further targets must be discussed with my master,” she replied flatly, even as the technician tilted her head back and cinched it into place.

Her heart fluttered in protest, trapped beneath the collar and the steel. She felt the strap tighten, the hum of restraint slither beneath her skin. Across the room, Markus hovered with the pathetic pride of a child trying to prove himself, watching her like she was a volatile pet finally caged.

She twitched instinctively.

The doctor didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps he did and found it irrelevant. All pretence of cordiality was gone by this point.

“You intrigue me,” he said, tone lighter than the situation called for. As though she should be flattered. “We’ve been watching you for some time. Ulysses is many things, but he lacks... vision. He hoards opportunity, blind to the scale of its potential. But you—oh, you—you are the single greatest oversight of his career.”

She said nothing. Her expression didn’t shift. It would achieve nothing. 

“You’re remarkable. Truly. A superior iteration. Faster. Sharper. A weapon without equal.” He leaned in just slightly, not close enough to violate, but enough that the intention of possession hung in the air. “But even the finest blade,” he added, “can be improved.”

The words slithered like a threat, though the tone was almost devotional. She held his gaze, unmoving.

“You will not be returning to Ulysses,” he said calmly. “He squandered his claim. You will not. From this moment forward, you are HYDRA soldat. And you will retrieve the Asset for me.”

Silence pulsed between them.

Then finally, her voice: low, clear, deadly quiet. “And if I refuse?”

It wasn't so much defiance as a genuine question. What were the consequences?

He exhaled softly, as if disappointed. “You misunderstand, moy dorogoy. Loyalty is essential. Absolute. But we will not have to enforce it, will we? You’re intelligent. You understand that resistance is inefficient. And the alternative is so much... simpler.”

His fingers flicked in a subtle gesture.

Behind her, something moved.

Metal groaned. Hydraulics stirred.

A door she couldn’t see opened, and she felt it before she heard it—the presence of something massive. Heavy footfalls. Mechanised rhythm. She couldn’t turn her head, but she saw the light swirl on the wall beside her—red, pulsing, slow. Then the gleam of steel and braided cabling.

A hammer.

Not of steel, but of inevitability.

“There is nothing like certainty,” the doctor murmured, stroking her hair. “And we do not take chances.”

When he stepped back, her body finally rebelled. She thrashed—once, twice—hard enough to rattle the frame, but the straps held fast. The collar bit into her throat. The leather cut into her wrists. Her muscles screamed, but she didn’t move. Not really. Not enough.

The room held her. The chair held her. The moment held her.

And then the hammer fell.

Not metal. Not weight.

But power. Final and absolute.

When the pain came, all she could do was try not to scream.

She failed.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWO

The Smithsonian was a calculated risk.

He knew better than to walk into a building wired with security cameras, packed with civilians whose wandering eyes couldn’t help but land on the familiar. His face had been plastered across every screen since the helicarriers fell—a ghost from the past come to tear the future down. But something in him—something gnawing and hollow and insistent—had driven him there anyway.

The baseball cap was a weak disguise, but the cold gave him an excuse to hunch his shoulders, keep his face low, let his hair fall forward in unbrushed tangles. Layered fabric did what it could to disguise the mass of him. Gloves hid the only thing more recognisable than his face as he moved through the crowd like a shadow without a source. Unnoticed and unremarkable.

Just another man avoiding the weather.

Inside, it was too warm.

The air smelled like books no one read and polished linoleum floors. School trips and family holidays observed it in idolatry—the history that clung to him. His history. The hush wasn’t silence, just soft noise filtered through decades of curation: murmured conversations, shuffling shoes, and the distant awe of a child who didn’t know any better than to be impressed by war.

He clocked the exits first. Guards, too. The cameras. His eyes mapped the space before his mind even caught up. Distances. Angles. Possible weapons. It was an instinct he couldn't turn off.

Then he turned—and saw himself.

A grainy photograph. Black and white. But he knew the slope of those shoulders. The set of the jaw that clenched now. He was missing the scowl and the stiffness—but it was him. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

The plaque sent something sharp and electric through him.

So, that was his name.

Though he'd long since stopped doubting the man on the bridge, there was a kind of finality to accepting it now.

The next frame held an image of that man. Steve. He was smiling. Skinny to the point of concern, but bright-eyed—even in monochrome.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. Past emotions he couldn't remember the origin of fully. He moved on quickly. Looking at him was harder, somehow. Like those eyes were seeing through him, to the core of him, and that judgement would follow.

His eyes landed on the younger version of himself next, looking back at him from across time. Cocky—sure of something he no longer had a name for. Something he hadn’t felt in decades. Beneath it, a list of names under The Howling Commandos.

Dum Dum Dugan. Gabe Jones. Jim Morita.

All gone.

His hands curled into fists inside his jacket. The fabric muffled the sound. Nothing muffled that inherited grief he still didn't understand. But just because he didn't know, didn't mean he didn't feel it.

He drifted forward, pulled by something formless and urgent, past the display cases of preserved uniforms, past flickering screens looping speckled back-and-white footage. War reels of Steve. Himself. Some together. Some separate. All versions of them that felt more fiction than fact.

Then—his voice. In the air.

An old interview, archived and mounted on the wall. Static fuzzed the edges, but the cadence was unmistakable.

“We’re gonna go in, take out the blockade, and make sure the prisoners get home safe.”

A pause. Then a chuckle. Low. Familiar. Alive.

“Steve’s got the plan; I just make sure he doesn’t get killed doing it.”

His breath caught.

He moved away before the ache could reach his hands. Before it could make him reach—as if he could touch something long buried and feel anything but misplaced loss and confusion. The sound of his own voice, unbroken and certain, lodged like shards of glass behind his ribs.

And then he saw it. The wall.

Captain America, bold lettering etched in clean serif font. A whole section devoted to him. To Steve.

First, the photos—post-serum. The shield. The weight of it in his hands. The impossible height of him as he stood with his spine straight, eyes brighter than the flashbulbs that caught him. Steve Rogers, the man the world remembered.

Steve Rogers, the man he’d pulled from the Potomac without thinking. Before memory. Before mercy.

His fingers twitched. The urge to touch something crackled under his skin even stronger than before. To find proof and anchor himself in it. The past was a blur of ice, iron cuffs, and the whine of neural override, but this…this was just as real.

Wasn’t it?

He stepped back. One, two sharp paces. Clipped a woman’s shoulder. She startled.

“Sorry. Sorry,” he murmured, barely louder than breath, unsure if it was meant for her or the ghost of himself standing ten feet away.

His voice sounded wrong. Wrong in pitch. Wrong in rhythm. The language itself scraped against his ears—foreign in his mouth. The words caught on the walls swam in his vision. Names. Dates. Honours. All too clean.

Too much. Too soon.

The air thinned. The space narrowed. Every breath snapped.

He turned sharply and walked out, pace steady but gathering force, the doors parting to let him through. And when the outside hit—cold, wet, winter-bitter—it was a punch to the chest and he could finally breathe again.

He doubled slightly, hands braced on his knees, dragging in breath after breath like a man returned from drowning.

Too much.

Too soon.

He wasn’t ready for this.

He wasn’t ready for any of it.

*

The train rattled beneath him. A dull, predictable clatter—steady enough to disappear into if he let it. He didn’t. But he let the rhythm thread through his spine. Something about it reminded him of boots on gravel. Of breath through a mask.

Head down. Cap low. Collar up. Just another body heading nowhere fast.

The compartment stank of stale air and cheap cologne. The seats were worn bald in patches, frayed at the edges from too many years of use. Too many ghosts—forgotten even while sitting amongst them. The kind of carriage people passed through and condemned for its neglect.

Outside, Europe streaked by in blurred strips of green and soot grey. He’d started in Austria. Then south, through Hungary, skimming the edge of visibility wherever possible—backroads, unregistered hostels, and crumbling farms. Places where no one looked too close.

He paid in cash when he had it, stole when he didn’t, and bartered when he had no other choice. Farmers always needed muscle and his strength and endurance was good for that, if nothing else. He worked quickly, finishing his tasks and taking his pay before anyone got a chance to look too close.

The first non-essential thing he bought was a coat. It was was second-hand, purchased from a market-stall in Graz. It was heavy, with wide shoulders and a musty smell he couldn’t wash out. It concealed the shape of him well enough, but he'd chosen it for more than practicality. It wasn't quite a want, but close enough for him to justify experimenting with it. To try and foster some humanity—see whether there was any left—even if it was materialistic. 

The second thing was a pair of gloves, the old ones worn through. He wore them even when the air didn’t demand it. It made him feel…not normal, but closer.

Other than those two human moments of whim, he hadn’t stopped moving in weeks. Hadn’t slept more than four hours at a time. If he kept moving, he didn’t have to sit with the weight of what had happened. What could still happen. If he kept moving, he could pretend it was momentum.

Not aimless.

He wasn’t stupid. His face was everywhere now. HYDRA’s fall had scattered a thousand rats into the daylight, but their presence still lingered. And governments—well, they had even longer memories. They didn’t forget. Every agency from Moscow to Madrid had his photo pinned to a wall somewhere.

He couldn’t afford mistakes. Couldn’t afford softness. Couldn’t afford to be James.

So, he thought like him. Soldat. Cold. Efficient. Untraceable.

It was the only thing he had any experience in. The only part of him that didn’t hesitate. And if he admitted it to himself—it was the only familiar thing, even now.

So he followed the instinct he hated. Let it drag him from one border to the next, slipping through cracks and staying ahead of the hunt. No paper trails. No names. No connections. Just movement.

And now? A darkened corner of Bucharest.

Why? Because it was little more than a place to disappear. It held no significance to him personally. 

Cities were where you went to disappear. They had a large population and were anonymous enough to vanish into—people coming and going in their thousands every day. Each one had its shadows that were cracked enough to hide in. A forgotten part with rusted gates and thin windows, and alleyways where no one asked. Rooms where the locks didn’t work. Where everyone decent was on-edge, trying their best to get out, and everyone who stayed was just like him.

It was what he needed.

A place to stop. For more than a handful of hours. To take a breath. To figure out what came next.

Because whatever happened, he couldn’t go back. Not to the chair. Not to the trigger words. Not to him.

Not to soldat. Not again. Not one more day.

*

The apartment was nothing but bare walls and a single window facing an alley that reeked of urine and fryer grease. The kind of place no one lingered unless they had nowhere else to go.

There were needles in the corner—old, dulled, specked with dried blood that smelled acrid. No one had used them in days. Maybe weeks. It was unlikely their last owners would be back for them.

He dropped his bag. Another second-hand find. The seams were already fraying, and the zipper stuck halfway closed more often than not, but he didn’t care. He didn’t have much.

The apartment had one entrance. One exit. Two, if he were desperate and had to get out quickly—a fire escape that looked like it hadn’t supported weight since the Cold War. The alley below was choked with broken glass and the skeletal remains of stray cats.

He catalogued it all without thinking. Window. Sightlines. Vulnerabilities. A quiet run-through of logistics that didn’t need conscious thought.

He sat on the thin mattress shoved against the wall, his forearms resting on his knees. His body ached. Not with injury, but with accumulation—tension that never left, only built. And motion that never stopped. Even enhanced bodies had limits and he had been quickly approaching his.

Even weapons got dull.

He exhaled through his nose and reached for the bag. Opened it.

In it was a few changes of clothes, a stolen knife, s crumpled train ticket, and the notebook.

He pulled it free and let it rest on his lap. It was plain, the pages dog-eared, and the spine already threatening to separate. He’d picked it up in Oradea for no particular reason. He had no plan for it. Just another twitch of impulse that felt too human to ignore.

His gloved fingers smoothed over the corner.

Inside—scraps. Fragments of a life he was supposed to have lived, scattered across paper like clues in a case no one was solving.

A leaflet from the Smithsonian. Creased to all hell after its journey across Europe, the edges soft from being handled too much. Sergeant James Barnes. The name might as well have belonged to someone else. It rang in his ears like a myth. A legacy.

A photo, torn from a microfiche archive in Prague, of the Howling Commandos. Steve at the centre, all grin and forward momentum, like the world hadn’t betrayed him yet. And there—just behind—him. Or someone that looked like him, grinning like a fucking idiot. The mirror of it stung.

There were a handful of internet printouts that were mostly nonsense. But some weren’t. He'd found 'declassified' military records with so many lines redacted they looked like one-way checkerboards. He'd also found a still-classified file with his name on, most of it blacked out and about as useless as the others. Finally, he'd found a conspiracy thread on some website that guessed too much correctly for comfort.

His own handwriting accompanied all of them. Rough and uneven. Always written in a rushed, stolen moment. Trying to describe scattered memories he didn’t want to forget—because forgetting was losing, and he’d already lost enough.

Brooklyn.

Steve.

Alpine White.

A girl with red hair and a voice like warmth. A voice that had once said his name like it meant something.

It was all broken and disjointed—a jigsaw puzzle with no edges and the picture worn away. Some part of him hoped that if he looked at it long enough, he’d remember how it was supposed to fit.

So far, it hadn't worked.

He closed the notebook.

For a long time, he just sat there, listening to the sound of the city.

A siren cried in the distance. A car engine choked to life, then died again. Voices passed below—foreign, fast, irrelevant. He didn’t understand the words. Didn’t want to. He wasn't here to observe anyone and hoped he'd get that same courtesy in return. 

He didn’t know what came next, how long he’d stay, or whether a place with no memories of him might finally make room for some to return.

All he knew—what sat heavy and hard in his chest—was that James Buchanan Barnes was gone.

The world had mourned him. Maybe Steve still did.

And maybe it was time he did, too.  

*

Four months passed.

He counted them in ceiling cracks, in the way the seasons turned, and in the slow, reluctant accumulation of things inside the apartment he hadn’t meant to stay in. Not for this long.

The first few weeks had been about survival. He'd started by learning the rhythm of the streets—mapping out alleys and escape routes, memorising the city’s veins so he could disappear into them when the past came knocking. He'd kept his head down. Watched. Listened. Done as little as possible.

Romanian had come quickly—too quickly. It slotted into place like a boot sequence, like everything else they’d ever buried in his skull. He didn’t question it. Wasn’t thankful for it. He just spoke when he needed to.

The apartment was still nothing. Four walls and a pipe that rattled in the cold. The mattress on the floor was thin, the springs nearly rusted through, but he’d wrapped it in a sheet stolen from a laundromat and added a blanket when the temperature dropped below his stubbornness threshold. It wasn't comfortable but it was less of a tetanus risk now.

There was a chair salvaged from an alley and a table with legs that disagreed on direction that made up a kind of desk along the far wall. It was something to eat at, at least. It made him feel less like an animal.

The radiator worked on its own terms and the walls were thin enough to hear even the softest footsteps in the stairwell, but it was quiet. And no one asked questions.

He had a handful of clothes now. A better knife, which he tucked beneath the mattress whenever he slept. There were a few thing he hadn’t meant to collect, but just couldn’t quite put back down.

A deck of playing cards.

A radio with more static than sound.

A book on World War II history, abandoned after the first page.

And still, the notebook.

That, he kept close. He spent most of his time reading over it. He knew every word by heart, but it still didn't stop him. 

He set it on the table beside the last granola bar. The spine had begun to buckle—fat with folded leaflets, torn pages, and scraps of memory too fragile to trust his mind to hold onto. His handwriting stared back at him—jagged, heavy, as if carved rather than written.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The name didn’t catch in his throat anymore. He didn’t wince. Didn’t recoil. It belonged to someone else, and maybe always had, but it was an acceptable truth now.

The market was crowded, loud in a way that left room for little else. Bodies moving in overlapping rhythms—some impatient, some aimless, all weaving between crates of produce and tarp pulled tight against the wind. He kept to the edges and watched from beneath his worn cap, keeping one shoulder turned just enough to keep a wall at his back at all times.

He scanned faces. It was as instinctual now as it had been the day he ran. He could pick out those who carried weapons, even when they didn’t broadcast it. The ones who were nervous. The ones who looked too long.

No one did. But that didn’t mean he was safe. Perhaps it was paranoia, but it hadn't let him down yet.

He bought bread. Cheese. A small tin of coffee, because it reminded him of crisp mornings and the smell of burning wood. He didn’t know what he was remembering, maybe one of the camps during the war, but it was something soft and brief. A sort of momentary reprieve. Something to reach for after yet another sleepless night.

When he returned, the apartment was unchanged. As always. He checked the door, the windows, the street below. A full sweep. Routine.

No one had followed him. They never did.  

He ate in silence. Sat on the floor and listened to the radio, the station crackling in and out, occasionally for minutes at a time. He caught phrases here and there. Enough to follow the cadence. Enough to forget, for a while, how quiet it really was when the voices below stopped.

He stretched after, slow and deliberate, testing the pull of old scar tissue. Feeling the grind in his shoulder that never left. Just to test. Just to see. Just to be sure. If he had to run, he’d be ready. If he had to fight, he had to be ready.

He didn’t want to fight anymore—a conclusion he'd come to one morning when he'd woke with a start, nightmares blending with reality for just long enough. But want had very little to do with anything anymore. He didn’t believe in deserving, not really—not for people like him.

When sleep finally came, it was with the knife under his pillow—his fingers grazing it.

And with sleep came dreams.

He always dreamed.

That night, he dreamt of firelight flickering against concrete. It cast long, uneven shadows that danced like ghosts, licking up he walls in time with the voice barking orders in his ear.

Russian. No warmth. Only command.

He nodded. He obeyed.

The mission was simple. They always were. Find the target. Eliminate the target. No witnesses.

His boots made no sound as he moved—rifle steady and movements fluid. Silent as the grave. He wasn’t thinking—hadn’t been in years—it wasn’t a decision, it wasn’t even action. It was automation, his mind separated from the body that carried out the task.

The door opened.

A woman gasped.

There was a child.

The rifle rose before he’d even seen them properly, the directive humming through his bones: no hesitation, no deviation. The barrel aligned and the sight steadied.

The woman moved. Not away—toward. She threw herself between him and the child, arms out, hands trembling. She was crying, her voice cracking as she begged in a language he might have known but took no time to decipher. He didn’t need to know what she was saying to know what she pleaded for.

And then—

He hesitated.

Just a breath.

Just a beat too long.

Pain cracked through his skull. White-hot and immediate. A correction. Punishment.

The voice returned, louder now—merciless.

Complete the mission.

And the moment of hesitance was over.

It did not return.

One shot.

Two lives.

Taken with brutal efficiency.

He woke with a gasp that scraped his lungs raw. His chest heaved as a layer of sweat chilled his skin, soaked the collar of his shirt. The room was silent as Bucharest slept outside the window. He didn’t move for a moment, caught between the remnants of the dream and the weight of waking.

Then, slowly, he sat up.

His breath rattled. His skin prickled. The ghost of blood lingered in his nose—metallic and unmistakable. His arm ached. The wrong one.

He looked down at it. At the way it caught the moonlight through the curtains. Not a hand. Not a limb. A weapon, fused to muscle and memory, and soldered to his very existence. A thing built for violence.

It would never be clean.

His metal fingers curled.

He wasn’t James Buchanan Barnes. That man had died falling off the train. Had been buried beneath Siberian ice and a thousand whispered orders in languages he no longer wanted to understand.

He didn’t know who he was now. Couldn’t claim to be anything but what they’d made him.

But he knew this much—he couldn’t go back. Not to Steve. Not to the world. Not to the name printed on museum plaques and propaganda films.

He would stay in the dark, in the shadows of his own making.

He would keep running. He would never fall back into their hands.

And he would survive.

Even if he didn’t know what he was surviving for.

*

It was another market day. The last crumb of yesterday’s bread had gone with the morning, and hunger was beginning to dig in its heels. He moved through the stalls like always—hood up, collar turned, posture neutral. Familiar and entirely forgettable.

The traders didn’t bother calling to him anymore. That game had ended weeks ago, when they realised that he wasn’t a tourist to be swindled. He was the strange man with the low voice and the unreadable eyes. The one who asked questions without asking them, who paid in exact change and disappeared before the receipt cooled.

He scanned the offerings out of habit, cataloguing calories against macros, measuring shelf life against practicality. He bought with purpose—prioritising sustenance, not satisfaction. The stove back in the apartment worked, technically. But he’d never used it for more than boiling water. Cooking felt… performative. A relic of a life he’d never lived. Like asking a blade to savour the marrow.

The bag slung over his shoulder was nearly full when it hit him. Subtle, but immediate.

He felt her eyes before he saw her—like pressure, sudden and certain. The flow of the street distorted as he reduced them to background noise. The movement of people hadn’t changed. Not a sound, not a word. But he could feel the sharp edge of something out of place.

Bucharest had never been safe, but it had been predictable. He knew these streets, knew the stall owners by posture alone—the old butcher always scowled at him with a hint of habitual distrust, and the baker’s son offered him day-old bread like it was gold. Patterns and rhythms that were human but not concerning.

And she didn’t belong to any of them.

She moved too cleanly. Too carefully. Civilians bled into the background, softened by their impulse and distracted by trivialities. Desires. Whims. Distractions. She was none of that. She walked like he did—step by step, already planning the next one. Her gaze swept mirrors and windows. Clocked shadows. Found exits. There was nothing casual about it.

Too smooth.

Too controlled.

He didn’t break pace, didn’t glance over his shoulder, just turned down a narrower street—one that bent away from the apartment, away from anything that could tie him down. There was nothing back there worth saving. Nothing he hadn’t already prepared to leave behind.

His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag, the corner of the notebook pressing into his spine like a tether. A strange comfort. A reminder. He had what he needed.

Enough to run.

More than enough, with fresh food packed away for the week ahead.

She followed.

He picked out the sound of her footsteps with precision—rubber soles, fast and thin, but weighted. Not as delicate as they should be. Nowhere near light enough for her size. There was a heft behind her gait that didn’t match her frame. Tactical armour, maybe. Weapons, more likely.

He didn’t risk turning his head to check. She’d given him a lead, and he wasn’t about to waste it.

What he needed was space. Distance. The city was too dense for evasion and too visible for a clean fight. But she wasn’t rushing. Wasn’t careless. She was holding position—tracking him, matching his pace, waiting for the moment. That told him everything.

She knew who he was.

She knew what he was.

And she was waiting to strike.

A plan formed in parallel with each of his steps.

Keep moving. Don’t give her anything. Pull her further out—past the avenues, past the safety of daylight. Toward the edge of the city. Toward the manufacturing district where the buildings rose like tombstones and people learned not to linger after dark.

The sun was already sinking, bleeding tarnished gold across cobblestones. His shadow stretched long, broken by scaffolding and alley mouths.

Behind him, her pulse held steady. Unhurried. Unshaken.

More and more evidence that this wasn't paranoia.

She wasn’t some lost traveller.

She was trained.

And she was closing in.

He didn’t know if she was HYDRA. He hoped not, but hope was for better men, and God had been looking the other way for years.

The light thinned as they slipped deeper into the factory district. The sun bled out behind rusted scaffolding, painting the sky in bruised oranges and blackened steel. Shadows crept up concrete walls, pooled in doorways, swallowed the fractured asphalt underfoot. Time was thinning with the light.

She had to know that. She had to know he’d seen her.

No one wandered this far on accident.

The market was miles behind them now—too far for a casual tail and too late for doubt. If she’d hoped to stay invisible, she’d failed. Which begged the question—

What was she waiting for?

Was he walking himself into a trap?

It was possible. But the rational part of his brain dismissed it. She wasn’t guiding him. He knew this district too well—kept tabs on the backstreets, the gang routes, the places with eyes. If there was a net waiting, he’d have sensed it.

Still, the unease didn’t budge.

Because she hadn’t made her move yet.

And he was almost out of road.

Then, finally, he made his decision. If she wasn't going to blink first, then he would.

He exhaled through his nose—slow and deliberate—letting the noise of the world fall away with everything else except this. After a moment, his pulse steadied. The ache in his shoulder dulled to background static.

Everything narrowed: his sight, his breath, the space between beats. That old stillness slipped into his bones like it had been waiting. Waiting for permission.

And there it was.

Focus. Cold and clean. The kind they’d carved into him. And the Soldier's plan formulated.

Let her get close.

He turned the corner and stopped just beyond the edge of sight.

And waited.

Her footsteps followed. Measured. Closing.

He could feel her through the wall. Hear the soft drag of rubber soles against uneven stone. She was moving like she hadn’t noticed. Like she thought he hadn’t.

Let her keep thinking it.

His grip flexed. His breathing slowed. The second stretched thin.

And when it came—when her shadow broke across the bricks—he struck.

His metal hand shot out and caught her throat mid-step, yanking her clean off her feet and slamming her into the wall with enough force to shatter bone.

Only—it didn’t.

She didn’t crumple. Didn’t choke. The hit should have crushed her windpipe, or at the very least rattled her skull to the point of dazed. Even enhanced, it should’ve bought him time.

But she moved like liquid—twisting through his grip before he could lock it, torque and precision snapping her free.

Then her knee came up. Hard. High.

It cracked against his ribs like a crowbar. Something gave.

Pain exploded through his chest, blinding and immediate.

He didn’t stop to feel it. Let the agony become motion—he spun out, staggered back, just as her blade cut through the air behind him.

And then, they finally faced one another in the darkened street, all pretences shed. Cards on the table.

For the first time, he saw her clearly.

The weight he'd heard had been tactical gear, as he'd suspected. It was high-grade—custom moulded to her slight frame. Reinforced plates sealed across her chest, neck, and arms. Likely her legs, too. Her hood drawn low. A mask hid her expression, but deadened eyes pieced his. There was no tremble in her stance, no twitch of uncertainty. She was poised with an almost mechanical stillness, every fibre tuned for combat. Made for it.

His stomach turned. Recognition striking hard and fast.

A Winter Soldier.

She didn’t give him time to think. No warning. No posturing. Just sudden, brutal motion—speed honed to a knife’s edge.

She fought the way he used to, without concern for injury or outcome. Without self. If her bones snapped from impact, she'd club him with the mutilated limb. Anything to win. Anything to complete the mission.

Her blade caught the dim light as it flashed toward his gut. He twisted away, the edge missing his stomach by a breath. But not the second strike.

Steel tore into his thigh—deep enough to feel blood instantly crawl out and over his skin.

The pain tore through him with a feral heat, staggering him back two steps before he caught himself.

She didn’t hesitate. She pressed forward, relentless and calculating. But what should have been a final blow—a slash at his throat or a stab into his chest—was instead reduced to a solid punch to his temple. It was strong, but not strong enough. His returning hit had her reeling.

With distance to recalculate, she took a second to reassess him.

It didn't make any sense when the killing blow had been right there.

Then, he understood: she wasn’t trying to kill him.

And the only reason she'd keep him alive was because she was trying to bring him in.

She reengaged him before he could think to run.

He could only analyse her from then on.

She didn’t falter. Didn’t stop to breathe. Every strike, every shift of her weight, was calculated. Efficient. Inhuman.

But beneath the precision, behind the grace sharpened into violence, was something worse than skill.

Emptiness.

There was no emotion driving her. She wasn't channelling rage—there was no spike or dip in her performance to exploit. No hesitation to seize. Just that hollow, obedient stillness—the kind drilled too deep to unlearn.

He recognised it instantly. And it made his skin crawl.

It wasn’t déjà vu. It was memory. Not of her, but of what he’d been. What they’d made him. Looking at her felt like watching his own shadow moving without him—sharpened, younger, crueller.

HYDRA hadn’t stopped with him. He'd known that before now. He'd read the SHIELD files, seen the footage. There were others. Projects that hadn’t lasted. Assets too unstable, too uncontrollable to be fielded.

But they wouldn’t send one of those after him.

Would they?

His thoughts twisted, scrambling for something solid. A name. A flicker of memory. Anything. But the past offered nothing but static and half-formed thought. The iron sting of blood. The echo of screams in languages he couldn’t forget.

Maybe he did know her. Maybe they’d shared a cell or a chamber. A handler. A mission that neither of them had come back from whole.

Maybe they’d bled on the same floor.

The idea cut deeper than her blade.

He shifted his stance, forcing his weight onto the injured leg. Pain flared like lightning—sharp, immediate, unwelcome—but he ignored it. He had to. He wasn’t the weapon they’d moulded anymore, not in that way. But whether that made him weaker or stronger was up to him.

She surged forward again—blade flashing silver, precise and brutal. He caught it on the flat of his metal arm, the clang echoing through the alley like a bell toll. She didn’t recoil. She recalculated. Each strike after came tighter, cleaner. She wasn’t aiming for damage—she was aiming for mistakes. His footwork. His reactions. His blind spots.

She was learning him. Herding him.

Retrieve the asset. Reset the program. Reactivate the Soldier.

His stomach flipped. Ice filled the hollows of his spine. Death he could face. Death was clean.

But going back?

Being dragged down into that quiet, obedient void again?

No.

But that was the alternative if he didn't win.

His teeth bared in a snarl as he drew his blade. Small. Cheap. Rust edging the grooves of the handle. But it would cut. It would tear.

She hesitated for half a breath. Not out of fear—but calculation. To her, the blade wasn’t a threat in the same sense he was. It was a variable; a risk of infection, of loss of function. Not to her body, but to the mission.

Then she lunged—silent, certain, unshaken.

And he stopped holding back.

Their weapons collided—hers sleek and surgical, his dull and unclean. Sparks burst between them as metal scraped against metal, loud and close, the sound rattling in his teeth. He struck low, aiming for her ribs, and hit square. But instead of tearing through flesh, his knife ricocheted harmlessly off the armour with a high-pitched ting that echoed up his arm.

He froze, just for a breath. Vibranium. He knew that sound—distinct and undeniable. He’d only heard it once before, fighting Steve.

They broke apart again and began circling. Her eyes flicked to the tear in his coat, the gleam of metal beneath. His gaze swept over her plating, searching for seams and weak points, anything that might give. It all happened in a heartbeat, the space between them crackling with the weight of realisation.

Then they collided again, harder this time. The rhythm of the fight turned brutal—an unrelenting tempo of steel on steel, of boots grinding against wet concrete. He had size, strength, and superior force behind every blow. But she was faster. Carved leaner. Every ounce of mass she lacked, she turned into momentum, redirecting him before he could land with weight.

She fought like she knew she couldn’t let him get his arms around her. And she was right.

She ducked every grapple, twisted free of every reach. Slipped past like smoke under a door. He kept pressing forward, but she was always a second ahead. She slashed—he swerved. He lunged—she vanished. The choreography was razor-sharp, the margin for error shrinking by the second.

It was a dance. One neither could sustain forever. And when someone slipped—it was going to cost.

She didn’t stop. Not once. Her dark hair cracked behind her like a whip as she slipped in and out of reach, her strikes no less precise than when they began. She moved like she already knew the choreography—like she'd rehearsed this fight a hundred times in her head.

But he’d been watching her too. Calculating. Tracking.

So he let her in.

The blade sliced past his cheek—close enough to sting from the wind of it—and he caught her. A clean grip on her ankle, dragging her mid-motion, wrenching her balance out from under her. She didn’t cry out. Instead, she recovered in mid-air, preparing to kick him in the chest. But he was already turning, using her own momentum to spin her back into him. His metal arm locked around her throat, elbow under her jaw, every inch of her pressed tight against his chest.

She fought like hell.

Limbs flailed. Elbows cracked into his ribs—already tender, probably fractured from her earlier efforts. His breath hitched, sharp and shallow, but he didn’t let go. He couldn't.

Her blade found flesh again—stabbed low, caught between his ribs, then higher, catching muscle in his shoulder. Hot pain bloomed, spreading fast, wetting his side with blood. Still, he held. Jaw clenched. Arms locked.

Her rhythm faltered. Not all at once, but gradually—like a machine winding down. Her legs lost power. Her arms followed. Her knife hit the pavement with a dull clatter, fingers slipping from the hilt as she clawed at his forearm.

But she didn’t beg.

She didn’t plead.

She just kept fighting.

Until she couldn’t.

Even when she sagged against him, even when her hands fell still, he didn’t let go. Not immediately. Not until her lungs stopped pushing. Not until her body slumped deadweight, and he was sure—absolutely sure—that she was out.

Only then did he loosen his grip.

But he didn’t drop her.

Despite the blood she’d drawn, despite the fire chewing through his ribs, sparking down his shoulder and into the meat of his side, he lowered her carefully—methodically—like a person, not a body.

Not because she deserved it.

But because callousness was his way.

His breath came shallow, controlled. But his hands shook—not from exertion, not from pain.

From something colder.

Empathy.

It landed in his chest like a second wound—heavy and unwelcome.

She was him. Or close enough that the line blurred. What he’d been. What he might have stayed, if the leash had held. If the programming had stuck. If he hadn’t broken—just a little—before they could fix him again.

The thought turned his stomach.

He forced it down. Shoved it behind the wall where the rest of it lived—everything too jagged to examine.

His fingers came away from his ribs slick with red. The pain surged in full now—blistering and unrelenting, each breath a fresh insult. He pressed back against the wall, swallowing a grunt as the concrete bit into his spine.

It took nearly a minute to breathe through it.

Another to admit that it wasn’t over.

Not yet.

The alley was still. No voices. No footsteps. No witnesses. But a Winter Soldier didn't exist without a leash. And that meant HYDRA was too close for comfort.

He didn’t have long.

Two choices stood before him.

He could leave her, vanish again, put enough miles between this fight and the next. Maybe send word to someone with cleaner hands—Steve, maybe. Someone who still believed that things could be salvaged. Someone who could handle it better.

Or he could end it. Slit her throat, walk away, and spare the world another one of HYDRA’s weapons.

Neither option felt right. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

There was a third, of course. If he was stupid enough.

He looked down at her, pain lancing through his ribs as he shifted. She was still unconscious—still breathing—but that wouldn’t last. When she came to, she’d come at him fast, and there wouldn’t be time to think.

So he had to act now if he wanted to be stupid.

Buy himself time to think. Time to heal. Time to figure out what the hell to do with her.

The plan that formed wasn’t much of one—it barely qualified—but it was all he had.

He crouched low and heaved her over his shoulder, a grunt tearing from his throat as his vision narrowed to a single point of black. She was heavier than she looked—compact and unforgiving, the vibranium laced through her suit making her feel less like a woman and more like a blunt object.

He adjusted the strap of his bag onto the opposite shoulder, every muscle protesting in sharp, urgent pulses. Something was definitely cracked. Possibly worse.

Still, he didn’t stop.

The steelworks loomed ahead, skeletal in the dark—hulking shadows and rusted iron. Inside, the air was damp and metallic, thick with the memory of industry. He found what he was looking for quickly: a vice press. Wide enough for sheet metal.

Strong enough, he hoped, to hold her.

If it didn’t… he still had her knife. And option two.

He set her inside the mechanism with a kind of brutal care. Again, not because she deserved it, but because his hands remembered how to move bodies without breaking them. He tucked her arms clear of the press, avoiding her joints. The movements came automatically. Not gentle. Just… practiced.

Blood was dripping from him now, soft and steady, painting the floor beneath them. He didn’t check where from. Everything hurt.

The machine locked with a low mechanical hiss.

He stepped back.

Watched.

The hood had slipped during the fight, revealing inky hair that stuck to her temples in damp strands. The rest of her face remained hidden. The mask hadn’t shifted—not even during the fight. He’d assumed it was like the one he'd worn—some reinforced cloth, maybe carbon blend—but in the low light he saw the truth.

It wasn’t fabric at all.

It was solid metal. Gunmetal sheen. No joins. No clips. Just a seamless continuation of the suit itself—sleek and contoured, sculpted tight to her face like a second skin. Not layered. Not woven. Full vibranium.

He hadn’t known that was even possible.

Steve had carried a twenty-four-inch shield of it—and that had been more than enough to contend with. But this… a full-body shell of the rarest metal on Earth, wrapped around someone like her? It made his jaw clench.

She wasn’t built to be disposable.

He glanced at his own arm, the glint of metal visible through the torn edge of his sleeve. For years, it had been the thing that made him dangerous. Now, it barely made him unique.

They’d been busy.

He still didn’t know how he’d knocked her out. How the pressure of his arm—held just long enough—had been enough to drop her. It shouldn't have been. Not with that suit.

He hadn’t meant to calibrate his strength. It wasn’t instinct. Just hesitation. Some part of him had recoiled at the idea of crushing her throat entirely, even when she’d tried to open him from the inside out. That part of him was a liability. And still, it had acted first.

Maybe that was the real problem.

His strength had never felt like it belonged to him. It had been installed. Modified. Deployed. He hadn’t earned it, he’d just survived it. HYDRA had used it like a battering ram, and afterwards—when he was free—it still felt like a thing on loan. Something that could be revoked. Or worse, triggered.

He had no business holding that kind of power.

Especially not against someone like her.

At least visually.

She was smaller than she had looked in motion. Lithe, but not delicate. The deceptive kind of small. The kind that moved fast and landed hard. Her face was mostly hidden—closed eyes, mask unmoved—but her skin was pale beneath the sheen of sweat. Her brow was smooth. No age lines. No tension.

Nothing but a girl.

She looked young.

She looked human.

And that made it worse.

Because the thing strapped inside the vice wasn’t some faceless enemy. Not to him. It was a person built for destruction and left to rot. It was him six months ago—stripped for parts, turned loose in the world with no map and no name.

And yet, equally as true—two tonnes of steel held her in place, and still he couldn’t exhale properly.

The hollowness in his chest spread wider.

He didn’t know what she was.

Didn’t know what he was going to do.

And for the first time in months, he felt entirely—irrevocably—alone.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THREE

Metal.

Not foreign. Not unfamiliar. Across her mouth. In her mouth. Blood, maybe. Or something like it—warm, iron-thick, bitter at the back of her tongue. She swallowed. It stayed. Clung. Her stomach turned.

Light scraped across her eyes. Dull. Grey. Still too much.

She tried to blink. Her lashes dragged. Vision caught on a blur that refused to settle. White. Or grey. Or something in between. Everything came in pieces. Her breath. Her pulse. Her body.

She didn’t know where she was. That thought should have come first, but it didn’t.

Her skin registered cold. Then pressure. Metal again—but not the kind that flexed and shifted with her. This was different. Heavy. Fixed. Buried in the back of her skull and unmoved by breath or instinct. The kind of metal that didn’t care if it hurt.

She tried to move.

Nothing answered.

A sound escaped her—a groan, low and wet—but her head barely lifted. The world tilted and the vertigo hit like a current. She dropped back down hard, brow colliding with something flat and unyielding.

Steel.

It rang dully on impact. Not loud, but final. The jolt rattled behind her eyes and her stomach lurched in response.

Her shoulders cinched. Her spine twisted. Still nothing. Her arms wouldn’t move. Her legs wouldn’t respond. Her lungs were working—slow, shallow—but they brought no relief.

Her wrists—

She couldn’t feel her wrists.

They weren’t gone. She hoped they weren’t gone. But they might as well have been—they'd gone numb, pinned and detached from her.

She blinked hard. Again. Then again. Trying to force her eyes into focus, to command them the way she used to command her limbs, but even that felt sluggish. Distant. The fog clung tight, every thought coming in short bursts.

Below her—yes, there—her thighs. Knees. The bend of her hips.

She was sitting. No, not quite. Bent forward. Restrained. The chair beneath her was crude. Wood or steel—something that had seen better days. Her spine was locked in place. Her arms outstretched beneath—

What was it?

Her gaze dragged upward; her eyelids sandpaper-thick. Something broad and solid crossed her forearms. It was flat and heavy. Low enough that she couldn’t even lift her elbows, let alone her hands.

A press?

A vice?

The word hovered just out of reach, blinking in and out of comprehension like a faulty light. The longer she looked, the more certain she became of its purpose, if not its name. It wasn't part of the chair, and her being here wasn't an accident.

Her fingers were tingling now as awareness returned. Her shoulders had begun to burn, circulation failing to fully reach her muscles. The limbs were swelling just beneath the surface, hot and foreign.

With the mounting awareness came a surge of dread.

Her jaw clenched. The metal across her mouth pushed back. Still there. Still sealed.

She tried to follow the thread back—how she’d ended up like this. To search her mind for who—or what—had put her here, but the reel jammed. The film stuttered. There were too many frames missing. No sound. No order. No beginning.

A flicker—violence, fast and bright. A hand—no, an arm. A grip. Her throat.

She flinched. Or tried to.

Think, she commanded herself.

But thinking didn’t help, it just made it worse. Her own mind had turned into a maze with no centre, only loops—every path ending in static, in pressure, in a dead end she couldn’t break through. And the harder she tried, the faster it spun.

Her eyes scanned the room, searching for external information. Or tried. Shadows sloped unnaturally, angles not where they should be. The light was dim and industrial, flickering through grime-streaked fixtures that hadn’t been serviced in years. The corners swam in blur. She couldn’t make out shapes, just the impression of abandonment.

A warehouse?

A cell?

It felt too open to be either, yet too silent to be anything else.

Then—

A voice.

Not out loud. Not behind her. Not beside her.

Inside.

You will not be returning… squandered his opportunities… you will retrieve the Asset.

Her vision snapped to nothing as recognition dawned. Not at the words, but the tone.

She knew that cadence. That inflection. The sound of authority, delivered with detachment. It burrowed behind her eyes like a needle.

She grit her teeth tighter, shaking her head as if the motion could scatter it. It didn’t help. It never helped.

The voice echoed again. Not in full sentences this time, just fragments, like half-remembered instructions. Bits of code recalled from corrupted data.

Realignment. Reassignment. Reorientation.

Each syllable dropped into her skull like stones in water, sending out ripples that broke against everything else.

The voice didn’t rise from the shadows, it cracked open inside her skull—sharp and deliberate, detonating through the silence like it had always been there, only waiting. Pain followed, and it surgically precise. She'd had no warning. It wasn't in excess. Just simple punishment for disobedience.

She recoiled instinctively, heels kicking out, spine twisting—but there was nowhere to go. The vice held and her arms didn’t budge. Her shoulders screamed, tendons straining beneath the weight, but she ignored it.

She yanked again. Harder. Then, with everything she had.

Still—nothing. Not even a tremor.

Her chest heaved. Her breath caught somewhere high, clawing its way up her throat like it could escape without her. The mask stifled it—sealed tight across her mouth, unmoved. Her scream hit it full-force and bounced back, ricocheting inside her skull, sharper than any blade.

Still no give. Still no air.

The mask flexed.

Not mechanically, not visibly, but she felt it—denser now, pressing down. Like a hand over her lips, forcing her silence. Not for cruelty, but control. Not suffocation—containment.

Her body answered with more violence.

She thrashed—torso twisting, spine arching, knees slamming against the frame beneath her. Dust broke free from the steel press above, spiralling down in lazy arcs. It caught in her lashes, turning to grit in her waterline. The restraint groaned, but not from movement. Just age—and neglect—as though it had never been tested this hard before and still wasn’t close to giving in.

Her elbows jammed against cold metal. Her ribs ground tight. Pressure lanced down her arms and settled like ice between the bones.

Still, no shift. No slack.

Her wrists weren’t numb anymore—they burned.

Again .

She didn’t stop to think, she didn’t calculate. She couldn’t. Instinct had overtaken reason. Not fear. Not yet. Just the raw, animal knowledge that something was wrong. That she wasn’t supposed to be here, that she was trapped.

And still the voice coiled, soft and coaxing now, threaded with familiarity she couldn’t place. Russian, maybe. She didn’t know how she knew that, only that the lilt stuck like oil.

Surrender, dorogoy. It will all be over soon.

The consonants slid like silk, but there had been no softness.

Her heartbeat jolted against her collarbones, too fast. Too loud.

And still, she pulled.

Harder. Always harder.

Like if she could just move—just once, just an inch—she might remember how.

Her limbs jerked once more—then stopped. Not by command, not even by force, just the inevitability of her body giving out if she continued.

Now was not the time to make herself weak.

Her heartbeat didn’t slow. If anything, it climbed, tightening its grip on her ribs with each pulse, but something else faltered. Her will, maybe. The part that fought without knowing why—the part that knew it was futile—it stuttered just long enough for confusion to slip past it, dragging breathlessness in its wake.

And then—movement.

Not inside her. Not the press. Outside, this time.

It was small, but close. And too soft to be an accident.

A shift in weight. The creak of worn leather. The scrape of boot on concrete.

Her breath caught mid-inhale as she froze—the dread truly filling her now. Not the way it did for the machine, not crippling paralysis, but instinct.

Something was here.

Not a memory. Not a ghost.

Something present.

The silence narrowed, closing around her like a fist. Her vision sharpened as her useless body dimmed—blood pulling back from her hands, her limbs, and coiling somewhere deeper. Closer to the core. Where it could survive longer and perhaps prove useful.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t dare breathe.

If she moved, it would see her.

And if it saw her, she didn’t know what would happen next.

But she remembered the part that came before pain.

The waiting.

They were coming.

She didn’t know how she knew—only that she did. The way you know a storm is close by the change in the air. That pressure that aches right before release.

This wasn’t the chair. There were no cables, no tell-tale whir, no buckles at her ankles, but the sensation—the prelude—was the same.

Then, from the edge of the gloom, a figure finally stepped into the light.

And every thought in her head shattered.

Not the doctor. Not the handler. Not the silent assistant or the god she’d long since buried. Not the white coats with their clinical voices and red-slick gloves—

Worse.

Tall. Motionless. Unreadable.

The Winter Soldier.

Not a hallucination. Not an image stuttered on a screen. Flesh and bone and metal.

Her breath locked, her vision narrowed, and recognition sliced through her confusion like shrapnel through bone.

The mission files. Surveillance footage. Combat strategy etched into the meat of her brain. The pattern of his gait. The torque of his arm. His threat classification burned into her like a brand.

She wasn’t prepared to face him.

She wasn’t meant to face him. Not without orders. Not without control. Not like this.

The room shrank and her restraint disappeared. Everything in her focus reduced to him—his stance, his silhouette, and the flicker of something mechanical beneath torn fabric.

Panic clawed its way up her throat.

If this was the test, she was already failing.

And if it wasn’t?

Then she was about to die.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched.

She’d been observed before—during drills, evaluations, the hours between pain and punishment when the only thing left was stillness—but this wasn’t that. This wasn’t clinical.

It was intent.

Her heart strained against her ribs, hammering uselessly. Her hands wouldn’t answer her. The press anchored her from shoulder to fingertip, too heavy to fight, too fixed to escape. Her body remained where it had been left. Her mind refused.

She tried to breathe through her nose, slow and measured—trying to regain some semblance of control over her psyche before she tumbled off the precipice—but it just wasn’t enough.

Terror rooted in her. Not logical fear. Nothing that lent clarity or sharpened instinct.

Just terror.

The raw, suffocating kind that bypassed thought and bloomed straight through muscle.

She couldn’t look away.

She didn’t dare.

Had she completed her mission?

The thought arrived too early. Or too late. She didn’t know. It hovered, suspended, like a signal trying to reach her from the end of a tunnel.

What mission?

A fault line split down the centre of her thoughts. Static poured in—half-memories, broken visuals, snapshots of movement and pain. A face without a name. A name with no voice. The hard edge of a cot. Boots against tile. The smell of iron and solvent. The whir of something turning just out of sight.

Pieces without shape.

She tried to string them together, but nothing held.

Then, he moved—apparently, finally, he'd had enough of watching her spiral in silence.

His movements weren't sudden. Or fast. A mere step forward, unhurried. There was no change in expression, his posture didn’t shift. Nothing telegraphed threat—but nothing suggested mercy either.

Her eyes caught on the sleeve of his jacket, torn just enough to expose a glint of metal beneath. It caught the light—dull, familiar, dangerous. She didn’t need context to understand what it was. What it meant.

The room smelled of old rust and oil and blood. Fresh blood.

Her gaze jumped between the alloy and his face, uncertain where to land. Her stomach clenched without her permission, her throat tightening around something she couldn’t name.

He took another step, then crouched.

Her body folded in on itself before she had time to think. A sound escaped her—small, raw, and too close to a whimper. She turned her face away, scraping her skin along the edge of the press to bury it on the far side. It wasn't a tactic, it offered no protection. It was merely an attempt to satisfy the need in her gut to try and disappear.

She curled her shoulders. Shrunk behind bone and restraint like it might make a difference this time.

And then—nothing.

No hit. No grip. No surge of cold through her veins. No voice in her head counting backwards from ten.

Just air. Still. Silent.

Her ribs locked tight. Her breath refused to move. Pain didn’t come.

And that absence—more than anything—terrified her.

Her lungs dragged in another breath, sharp and shallow. It rattled somewhere deep before settling in her chest, not quite useful. But necessary. The high whine in her ears dulled just enough for something else to filter through.

A rhythm, low and measured.

A heartbeat.

Not hers.

Unlike hers, his was steady—undisturbed, like this moment cost him nothing.

Then his voice, cutting through the quiet like a wire pulled taut.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

It wasn’t a reassurance. It didn’t try to soothe. But it didn’t lie.

Or she was just too desperate not to believe.

She turned her head slowly, cheek scraping the rusted edge of the press, not lifting so much as angling. Just enough to find him again.

He hadn’t moved far, but something in the shape of him had changed. Not meaningfully, just the angle of his posture—the set of his shoulders—subtle shifts, but they struck her differently now. If she’d seen only his eyes, detached from the rest, she might not have placed him. The photographs in her memory were clinical, sharp, devoid of life. Eyes like bullet points, waiting for orders.

These were not those eyes.

They were cautious, guarded. Holding something back, but holding nonetheless.

She didn’t know what he saw when he looked at her. She barely knew what she saw in return. If she had a mirror, she wasn’t sure she’d recognise the reflection. Her identity felt loose inside her skin—like it belonged to someone else. If it existed at all.

He didn’t shift his gaze as he asked, “Can you speak?”

The question hung in the space between them like a test. She hesitated, uncertain whether the answer was obvious. Her body still remembered how to nod, but the impulse came late—delayed, a second too slow.

Yes, she thought. Yes, I can. I think I can.

But she couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken. Couldn’t remember the sound of her voice, or the shape of a word leaving her lips. Her mouth had moved when she’d screamed, and her breath had passed through the mask, even if sound hadn’t. That was something. A start.

There had been resistance, though. A pressure, subtle but firm—not to silence, but to contain. To trap the panic inside.

Now, as she opened her mouth again—slow, cautious—the mask seemed to respond in kind. The metal shifted, seamless and fluid, not mechanical in any way she understood. It flexed against her skin like a muscle, like breath. It hummed faintly at the edges, a vibration that reached into her jaw, curling behind her ears. It didn’t hurt. But it didn’t feel passive, either.

Permission, but conditional.

Her throat clicked. She swallowed. Shaped her lips around words she wasn’t sure would come. The longer it took, the less certain she became—of the outcome, of her ability, of whether she was even allowed.

Still, he waited.

Not with warmth. Not with menace.

Just patience. And somehow, that was worse.

She closed her eyes.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet and thin. Halting at the edges of air and doubt.

“I—I can…speak.”

Relief hit her like collapse.

Not soft. Not kind. It buckled her without warning—an involuntary sag of muscle. Her forehead dropped against the steel with a dull thunk. She didn’t lift it. The scrape of rust against her skin was immediate, sharp, dry.

She welcomed it.

It grounded her. Gave shape to the moment. Something fixed. Something that hurt just enough to know it was real.

Her eyes closed. She let the sensation spread across her brow, let it sting. There was something familiar in the abrasion—a known rhythm, remembered only through repetition. She didn’t reach for the reason. Not yet. That was a question for later, if later came.

When her eyes opened, he was still there.

Unmoved. Unchanged.

Still crouched like a sentinel. Still watching.

She didn’t like not knowing where he was. The moment her eyes had drifted, something in her gut had shifted—unease creeping in quiet and wet, like water beneath a door. She tilted her head to keep him in view and gave the press a pull. Hard. The metal groaned beneath her arms, the echo harsh and jagged against the rafters overhead.

She didn’t expect to break it.

She wanted him to respond.

He didn’t.

“Did you do this?” Her voice held, roughened by restraint but no longer fraying.

“Yes,” he said.

No embellishment. No clarification. Just that one syllable, landing with the weight of something already decided.

It shouldn’t have stung, but it did.

Not because of the power imbalance—it was too late for outrage about that. She was used to being outnumbered, outgunned, outmanoeuvred. What made her teeth grit now was the quiet way he wore it. The stillness. The unshakeable certainty that he didn’t owe her anything more than the truth in its barest form.

Her breath drew tight behind the mask.

If this was part of the test, it was cruel in ways she hadn’t expected. No commands, no scripts, just him—measured and detached, forcing her to reach for meaning where there was none. The anger came easy. Easier than helplessness, easier than fear. It lit through her like heat in the blood, burning out the leftover haze.

“Where am I?”

The question came fast, shaped less by strategy than by desperation for context. She needed coordinates. Country. Climate. Something to tether the fragments in her mind. If this was another simulation, she wanted the glitch.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he studied her. His expression unchanged, but something in his focus sharpened. Not curiosity. Not even suspicion.

Assessment.

She held his gaze, refusing to blink first. If this was about proving something, he’d have to fight her for it.

“The first question is always, ‘Who are you?’” he said.

It wasn’t rhetorical.

And from the way he watched her—calm, grounded, unyielding—he knew the answer mattered. Because right now, he was the one asking. And she was the one tied down.

She glanced down at her arms, still trapped beneath the press, and wished—not for freedom, not yet—but for enough slack to spit blood. She would have aimed for his boots, if only to feel the illusion of control again. She tried. Justifying it to herself as limit testing the strange technology over her mouth that let her breathe and speak but not scream. The most she could manage was to let it slide down her chin, thick and warm where it met the edge of the mask.

He was still watching.

There was no leverage left. No room for strategy. So she gave him the only thing she still owned.

“I know who you are,” she said, the words thick but steady, lifted just enough to meet his gaze from under her brow.

The movement scraped her skin against the rusted metal—another abrasion, another point of contact with something real. A flicker rose behind her eyes. Not memory. Not fully. Just the echo of one. Someone else had done this—looked up like this. And the weight of it, whoever they had been, landed like a bruise. More feared than the doctor. More feared than him. Gone before she could name it.

He stepped out of her line of sight without a word.

She exhaled a curse into the mask, but didn’t waste her voice calling after him. Her damaged throat wouldn’t bear it. Now that the panic had thinned, the pain stood clearer—bruises at her ribs, the sting of split skin, the tell-tale ache of having fought and lost. A clearer picture was forming, even if the edges were still missing.

He returned a moment later with a chair—old, warped, its vinyl cracked and leaking yellow stuffing like dried marrow. He dropped it to the concrete without ceremony. The sound hit hard, rattling in her skull. She clenched her teeth until it passed.

Then he sat. Calm. Unhurried. Elbows on his knees, back slightly hunched—not like a predator, like a man settling in.

He looked at her like he meant to peel her open with nothing but patience.

“Then let’s start with who you are.”

He couldn’t see her sneer beneath the mask, but something in her body must have betrayed it. His expression shifted—barely—but the change was precise. A small tightening at the corners of his eyes. A subtle adjustment of balance.

Again, she had no choice. No door. No window. No weapon. No clarity. Only instinct. And though it didn’t trust him, it didn’t fear him anymore either. Not entirely. Not the way it had when the lights first returned and she thought the simulation had begun again. That had passed.

This was…different.

If this were the facility, there’d be no room for stillness in his gaze. No calculation. No restraint. His eyes would be glass. Purpose would’ve emptied them. She wouldn’t have needed to speak—only obey.

But he was watching her. Not like a target, but like something unsolved.

What did he mean, who?

Didn’t he know?

Hadn’t he read her file the way she’d read his? The bullet points, the war crimes, the ghost trail of bodies from one continent to the next. She’d memorised his face. His arm. The way he moved. The first time she’d seen him in motion—grainy footage from some failed extraction—they’d made her watch it a dozen times. Then they’d blacked out the lights and asked her to describe it. Frame by frame.

And she still could. Even now. It was the only thing she could recall.

How could he not know who she was?

Why was he speaking to her like this?

Why wasn’t she back in the chair?

Where was the doctor?

Why was he asking her name like he hadn’t helped burn it out of her?

Something in her tightened. Because that wasn’t right. None of this was right.

And yet, he expected her to tell him what he wanted to know.

“That’s not an easy question to answer,” she said finally, tone guarded.

He tilted his head—not in challenge, but interest. And then he leaned forward, bringing them level, like he meant to make sure she felt the weight of what came next.

“Try.”

She blinked.

Her gaze drifted over the room again—walls unpainted, metal girders rusting through, a single cracked skylight high above that let in just enough cold to prove this place had no climate control. Not a lab. Not a simulation. There were no cameras and no monitors. No other footsteps but his.

If this was a test, it was an imperfect one.

Her eyes returned to his. He was still watching. Still waiting. He didn't seem to do anything else.

She didn’t know what to think, or what to do. His question churned in her mind, unmoored from logic. What was the right answer? What happened if she got it wrong?

The air filtered tight through the mask as she inhaled, the hiss sharp in her ears. She lowered her head again, returning it to the rusted press. It welcomed her. Bit back. Linear. Honest. It grounded her in a way nothing else did. That, at least, made sense.

“I’m not being difficult,” she murmured eventually, her voice rough. “I’m—” Her lips twitched, half a grimace, half a flinch. “Confused.”

It felt like treason to say it out loud. Against what—or who—she didn’t know. But the shame came anyway, slithering through her ribs like something earned.

Her fingers strained reflexively beneath the bar, blood prickling down through her wrists.

He spoke again, calm and infuriating. “Then tell me what you remember.”

A dry sound left her throat. More breath than laughter. Her head tilted enough to glance up at him, one brow twitching.

“Nightmares,” she said. Because there was no other word for the murky and muddled memories rattling around in her head—out of order and intangible, yet haunting in a way that made her skin prickle.

She shifted, the weight of the press biting deeper across her forearms.

“Do you want to hear every one?” she asked flatly.

That earned her the faintest lift of his brows.

“Depends how much you want to get out from under there.”

She bristled, something old and hostile stirring in her blood. Not rage. Not yet. But the ache of it. The bitter, familiar scrape.

She didn’t answer. Not yet.

She was still sifting.

Not through orders. Not through protocols. Through the wreckage.

For something she could offer that wasn’t just pain or punishment. Something that felt like a beginning. A shape she might pour herself into—if only to break the silence he’d left hanging.

He wanted to know who she was. Like it was a fact she’d misplaced, not a foundation she no longer possessed. But when she turned inward to meet the question, there was nothing waiting for her. Just white noise. Static and ice and a language she didn’t remember learning to speak. There were memories—but no sequence. Sensation—but no source.

So she dug deeper.

The pain didn’t strike like lightning, it buzzed low—threatening—the warning hum of something live, like wire stripped bare.

Telling her to stop.

She didn’t.

“There was snow,” she said. “Ice. A lot of it. I think…a facility. Beneath it.”

The words felt foreign in her mouth. Like she’d borrowed them from someone else. Her voice was dry, uncertain—not from fear, but effort. Each phrase dragged free like it had claws.

“A chair,” she added. “Steel. Fixed to the floor. A man—no, a doctor. Markus?”

The name rang inside her skull like a dropped coin, heavy and echoing.

She didn’t know why it felt wrong, only that it did. The syllables wanted to lodge themselves the inside her throat, fighting not to be spoken.

“He asked questions. But I don’t—I don’t remember what I said.”

Something stirred then behind her eyes, heavy as water and sharper than glass.

She blinked hard, but it didn’t go. Her body tensed on reflex, as though bracing might slow the pull, but it didn’t. The memory dragged at her with teeth.

“Something about evolution,” she murmured.

The breath caught. Her lungs seized. Heat pulsed behind her eyes, sudden and bright and blinding. It felt as though her skull would split open from crown to jaw, pain driving down like a blade between thoughts.

She gasped—wet and guttural—and dropped her head hard against the rusted press.

It didn’t help.

It didn’t anchor her.

It fractured her further.

Colour drained from her vision. Dried sweat stung her eyes as it was rehydrated. Her ribs locked. Her stomach turned. She could taste copper and leather in her teeth, though she didn’t know if it was memory or blood.

Still, she reached for it.

Because there had to be something. Something useful. Something true. Something that would mean she’d passed—whatever this was.

She swallowed. Her throat spasmed. Her mouth opened, and the word came crawling out like it had been hidden in the bone. Ripped up from somewhere it wasn’t meant to survive.

“HYDRA.”

Her eyes found his through the blur, and something shifted.

Not much. Not enough for certainty. Just the faintest flicker across his face—gone before she could be sure it had ever been there. But she’d seen it. A crack in the quiet. The indifference. The calculation. It might have been anger. It might have been fear.

“HYDRA,” she said again. Clearer this time. Like speaking it aloud might name the thing inside her. Like it might make it real.

He stood.

No warning. No answer. No change in expression.

She didn’t lift her head. Didn’t brace. Just followed him with her eyes as far as the light would allow. Then he passed into the dark, and she lost him. Entirely.

Even her vision—cut sharp by design, trained to track movement in chaos—couldn’t find him there.

He was gone.

And somehow, it didn’t feel like relief. Nor vindication.

She hadn’t expected release. Or reassurance. She hadn’t expected him to speak her name like it still existed. She knew that her honesty didn’t count—earned her no favours—because she hadn’t had a choice.

But she had expected to at least enjoy that look on his face, the crack in his perfectly crafted impassiveness. It was why she’d repeated the word aloud—she wanted to stick the knife in and twist it to see if she could make him writhe.

Instead, she was left with nothing.

Her head dropped. Not with defeat, but gravity. The press caught her again, rust scraping the same wound as before. There was no comfort in it now. No anchor.

Only steel. And cold. And breath.

And the echo of a word that still meant everything, even if no one answered.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOUR

He hadn’t planned to speak to her. Hadn’t planned to let her even see him. The Winter Soldier wouldn’t have.

But he wasn’t the Soldier anymore. Not entirely.

And he wasn’t James Buchanan Barnes either.

Not because he didn’t want to be—but because the name didn’t belong to him anymore. That name had weight. It had a funeral folded into it, and medals buried with it, and a hundred memories that belonged to men long dead or living without him. James had been a war hero. A brother in arms. A son. A man with a future worth saving. And he… couldn’t tarnish that. Not by dragging it through the dirt alongside him. Not out of respect for the ones who still remembered what it used to mean.

So he went without a name. Without anything.

Still, sometimes, when the noise dulled and the cold reached deep enough to make him honest, he wondered if some part of that man—the real one—had survived. The part that wasn’t built by HYDRA. The part that didn’t kill for silence. He didn’t picture a reunion. No closure. No moment of light. Just a pulse. A whisper. A compass buried under the wreckage, waiting to be found when it mattered most.

But now? Now there was no compass.

There was no plan. Not one that accounted for her.

The night was cold. Not bitter, but sharp enough to keep him present. He paced the gravel outside the factory, slow and aimless, the rhythm more compulsion than anything else—nervous energy looking for any way out. His breath curled silver in the air, boots scuffing shallow grooves into the dirt with each pass. The wound on his thigh had finally closed, stopped bleeding, but it throbbed as he continually used the healing muscle. He wasn’t sure about the state of his ribs and side. It hurt more than his leg, but he didn’t have time to worry about pain.

He didn’t have time—period.

And it wasn’t the pain that slowed him. It was the voices.

Not hallucinations. Not memories. Just noise, layered too deep to unpick. Instincts that didn’t feel like his. Ghosts with fingerprints.

The Soldier had already spoken. Cold. Unsentimental. Efficient. There was no debate to be had.

No witnesses. No loose ends. No risks.

She’d seen him, fought him, tracked him like she’d been trained to do. She hadn’t lost because she was weaker. She’d only lost because she made a mistake.

That made her dangerous. A threat.

The Soldier didn’t need to justify the logic. It already sat in his chest like a loaded gun, ready to fire.

But James—the fragments he had to believe still existed somewhere inside of him—said no.

No more killing. No more blood. No more burying evidence just to sleep even less at night.

He had vowed. Both of them had. Even if they didn’t agree on who they were now.

Even if neither one knew how to live with it.

And she—whatever else they’d made her into—was still a person.

That was the detail that wouldn’t let him walk away. The one that kept circling. Pressing. A thumb to the inside of his skull, again and again, like it might crack something open. She was him six months ago. Confused and still half-programmed. Dragged halfway out of the wreckage and still bleeding orders she didn’t remember receiving.

If he left her now—if he turned his back and walked—she’d vanish. The machine would swallow her again and Hydra would polish the weapon they’d almost perfected, and this time, they wouldn’t leave the edges rough. She’d disappear into the code. A whisper. A trigger. A name struck from the record.

He’d seen what she could do. How quickly. How cleanly. She moved like the training had fused with her bones. Maybe she’d been like him once—taken, rewired and hollowed out and repurposed—or maybe she’d chosen it. Maybe she’d asked for it, welcomed the darkness, let it build inside her until there was nothing left but instinct and precision.

Maybe she was worse.

But it still didn’t matter.

He didn’t need the details to recognise the shape of what had been done to her. It didn’t matter how many bodies she left behind or what flag she carried when she did it. It didn’t matter whether she remembered them, or whether she’d cared.

No one deserved the chair.

Not for ideology, not for retribution, not even for guilt. No one deserved to have their thoughts dismantled and put back wrong, their conscience carved up like meat, their name burned out and replaced with code.

Even if she had signed up for it. Even if she’d walked into that lab with her head high and her eyes open, demanding they make her useful—what then? What difference did it make? What right did he have to weigh the cost? To look at someone like that and call her lost?

He’d done worse.

And he’d done it longer.

There were almost a hundred years of blood between his ribs, in the cracks of his fingers and panels of his arm. Ghosts he couldn’t name. Orders he hadn’t questioned. People he hadn’t hesitated to kill. Entire families. Entire rooms. Not because they were evil, but because someone told him they were in the way.

And still, he’d kept going.

Not to atone, not to confess—just to survive because something in him, something small, buried, quiet, still wanted to live. Still thought he could.

He didn’t know if that voice belonged to the man he’d been, the soldier they made, or whatever was left in the wreckage now.

But it was enough.

It was enough to step back inside.

The air closed around him like a shroud—damp with rust, thick with the taste of old oil and rot. The kind of stale that didn’t just linger—it embedded. Sank into the tongue, stuck between teeth, lined the throat with something acrid.

The factory had gone quiet again. No echo. No scuff of boots or shift of chain. Just the slow flicker of dying fluorescents and the hum of stillness so complete it scraped against the senses like grit on glass.

She hadn’t moved. Obviously.

Still caught beneath the press, arms stretched and bound, her spine curled just slightly with the weight of strain. Right where he’d left her. But her chin had lifted—fractionally. Enough to mark his return.

She didn’t speak. She only watched.

Not with terror. Not with hope. Just an unwavering stare that held him where he stood. Unreadable in the way of people who had learned the cost of being seen too clearly.

And yet—there was something in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Not trust. That was too far off, too far gone. But the vacancy was gone. The hollowness. The glassed-over shock of someone dislocated from time and space.

Now there was a presence behind her grey stare. Clouded still, tinged with caution, but not empty. No longer someone floating just beneath the surface of their own skin.

She was there. Entirely.

And that meant something had shifted.

Not in him. In her.

Not enough to call it a reckoning. But enough to demand one.

Whatever she’d been turned into—whatever programming still rang like distant thunder at the back of her skull—she hadn’t surrendered to it. Not completely. Not yet.

And that—more than her silence, more than her scars, more than the wreckage left in her wake—was the detail he couldn’t turn away from.

Because if she was still in there, then she still had the right to come back out.

And if no one else was going to give her the chance—

He would.

But not if she was about to bring HYDRA down on their heads, teeth bared.

He stopped a few feet from the press, boots scraping against the concrete. The stillness pressed close again—walls heavy with cold, silence thick enough to feel. He glanced around once, sweeping the shadows by instinct, but he already knew they were alone. He’d chosen this place for that reason. No reliable power. No people. Nothing worth salvaging except time.

He squared his shoulders and asked, flatly, “Are you being tracked?”

The words came hard. He intentionally let the Soldier start this off. Let her hear it. Let her feel the edge. The voice she would know—the one bred for obedience and had no compunction about how it was done. It kept a barrier between them. Made this easier.

Her answer came quick, in contrast to the sluggishness of before.

“I don’t even know what country I’m in.”

The mask dulled the tone, but not the message.

She wasn’t afraid of him anymore.

Her voice didn’t tremble, it cut. There was no confusion, no hesitation—just contempt, clean and immediate. As if he’d insulted her by asking. As if, after everything, the worst thing he’d done was overestimate her.

It shouldn't have thrown him, but it did.

Because she wasn’t the same woman that he’d left slumped beneath the vice an hour ago. The shake was gone. The disorientation, buried. Something else had taken its place—something sharper. And the shift made his chest go tight in a way he didn’t like.

She was still now. More controlled. Not calm—never calm—but alert. Her posture had changed; her silence had changed. She wasn’t frozen anymore. She was waiting.

Not for a hit. Not for rescue.

For him.

Whatever fog had blanketed her mind, it was lifting. Slowly. Likely painfully. But it was going. And as it went, it left someone behind.

Not someone clean, and by no means innocent, someone whole enough to be dangerous if she chose to be.

He didn’t know what she was. What part of her still answered to orders, and what part wanted out. But she wasn’t blank. She wasn’t broken. And that made her a variable he couldn’t predict.

James wanted to believe that was a good sign.

The Soldier kept his distance.

“Romania,” he said after a pause, voice low, deliberate. The word hung between them, uneventful. As if it mattered. As if knowing changed anything.

Then he stepped forward.

No warning. No pretence.

He didn’t ask for permission—there was no use in it. She was pinned, spine locked, arms stretched beneath the bar like offerings. If she had a tracker buried under the fabric, they didn’t have time to wait for diplomacy.

But still—his hands moved slow. Purposeful. Neutral.

Not gentle.

There wasn’t a version of this that could be called gentle.

But he, at least, wasn't trying to scare her again.

He expected resistance. A twist. A recoil. Something animal. Even if her limbs couldn’t answer, her body would. There'd be a flicker of tension. A snap of breath. Her muscles tightening beneath the skin. Something to tell him she was still in there—still drawing the line between self and stranger.

But there was... nothing.

She just watched him.

He started at her waist, skimming the folds and seams of her tactical clothing with impersonal precision. Her gear was patchworked—military-grade where it counted, scavenged elsewhere. It had been a while since she'd set out to find him, he surmised.

He moved higher, along the slope of her ribs, the line of her sternum. His knuckles grazed fabric, smooth and worn. Underneath, her breathing didn’t change.

Every pass was accounted for. Clinical. Efficient. A sweep for hidden circuitry, for anything that could pulse, or blink, or betray. It wasn’t invasive.

But it should have been.

A person—any person—should have flinched. Should have snarled or spat or gone rigid with shame, even soldiers. Even the broken ones. Touch left traces. Violations had rhythms.

But she gave him none of it.

Not submission.

Not acceptance.

Just absence.

She watched him like someone watching a machine assemble itself. Calm. Composed. Detached. There was an awareness in her eyes now—sharp, tracking—but it never reached her body. He could have been across the room for all she reacted.

And that—more than anything—unsettled him.

She wasn’t glassy anymore, she wasn’t disoriented or afraid, but she was empty in a way that didn’t come from confusion. It came from habit. From history. From a lifetime of contact that meant nothing, that required nothing.

He stepped back, slower than he’d meant to. Not out of guilt.

Out of awareness.

Of her. Of himself. Of the space between them.

He hadn’t felt like an intruder when he started.

But halfway through, he did.

“I didn’t find anything,” he said at last. His voice felt distant in his own throat. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not tagged.”

She didn’t answer. Not immediately. But something shifted in her posture, almost imperceptible—a narrowing of focus, the faintest sharpening of breath. When her gaze met his, it held a new weight. Not vulnerability. Not challenge. Just…intent.

“Where was yours?” she asked.

He didn’t reply. Not aloud.

Instead, he reached forward—left hand, the one she’d eyed like an unpinned grenade before—and pressed a single finger to the shallow dip just above her collarbone.

Tink. Metal tapped against metal. A soft, deliberate sound.

She didn’t move. Didn’t shy or startle or follow the motion with her eyes. There was no tension in her shoulders, no flicker of confusion or offence. She simply watched him, unchanged, like his touch meant nothing. Like she didn’t feel it at all.

He left the contact a moment longer than necessary, waiting to see if instinct would finally surface. Some flicker of recognition. A withdrawal. A breath caught in her throat.

But there was nothing.

He eventually pulled back.

And filed the absence away—quietly, clinically. Another blank entry in a column that should have been full.

The silence stretched longer than it should have.

He let it ride a beat too far, then sighed inwardly. Guess we’re doing this the hard way.

“How does the armour come off?”

A flicker—brief and uncertain, but he caught it. The question landed, but the answer didn’t follow. She blinked slowly, once, then again, like trying to shake something loose from behind her thoughts.

He recognised the look. The long, slow reach for something that should have been close. Muscle memory. Embedded training. The sort of detail you didn’t forget unless someone made you. And then the stutter—panic lapping at the edges. Confusion souring into anger.

He didn’t wait for her to admit it, he saw it plainly enough.

She didn’t know.

His hand dropped back to his side, the gesture a clean withdrawal. He hadn’t expected her to, not really, but hope was a stubborn bastard, and it had still asked the question.

His next words came quieter than the first. Not soft—he didn’t have that in him right now—but even.

“May I?”

He didn’t qualify what he meant. Didn’t gesture toward the mask, the armour, the stillness between them that neither of them trusted. The meaning was obvious and it mattered that he asked. Even now. Even when the whole thing was a farce—when consent was moot, when the risk outweighed the delay—

Still, he asked.

Because the alternative sat wrong in his chest. Taking felt too close to what had been taken from both of them too many times before.

Her brows pulled together. Barely. A faint furrow, a muscle memory of emotion rather than the thing itself. But it was the first real flicker she’d given him since he’d walked back in.

Not anger. Not fear.

Dissonance.

She looked at him like the question didn’t make sense. Not the content—he could see that she understood what he meant, but the shape of the request stalled her. The notion of asking at all. Like the concept had never been modelled. Had never even occurred to her.

And though they didn't have time, he found himself waiting.

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. It was…empty. Like a frequency just out of range, the connection stuttering in and out behind her eyes. Her expression stayed flat. Not guarded, just distant. She was thinking—but the thoughts were scattered, dragging themselves into form.

When she nodded, it wasn’t decisive. It wasn’t anything like consent.

It was default.

A mechanical gesture, slow and unsure. She didn’t say yes, she didn’t say no. She just responded because it was the only thing left to do.

He felt it land in his chest like sediment. A slow, sinking weight he hadn't expected to feel.

The Soldier pressed forward inside him—coiled tight at the edges, running probability checks, calculating the cost of a mistake. The reflex to strike first hadn’t left and neither had his readiness to kill.

But he—James—whatever part of him was still trying to be human—held the line.

He reached forward with his right hand.

Skin. Scarred knuckles, broken twice in ’42—before the serum—healed over and still sore in the cold. Flesh that could bleed. Flesh that could hesitate. The kind of hand that asked before it took.

Whether that made him soft or stupid—he’d find out soon enough.

He started at her throat.

The armour there was seamless—sleek and form-fitted, but not cold. It gave under his touch. Barely. Like the taut resistance of a muscle braced beneath skin. It should’ve felt synthetic. Fixed. Dead. Instead, it… breathed.

Subtle, but distinct. It shifted fractionally beneath his fingertips, adapting to pressure in real time. A low hum pulsed from it—faint, steady, almost imperceptible. But it was there. Like energy just below the threshold of sound.

He followed it with his hand, slow and methodical, tracing the path along her collarbone and up the line of her jaw. He wasn’t thinking about her anymore. Not exactly. He was focused on the suit. The way it responded. The way it had repelled him in the fight—deflected his blade, absorbed the impact of a punch that could have shattered bone.

It had taken every hit like iron.

And now it yielded. Slightly. Obedient, almost. Responsive in a way that made no sense. He couldn’t find the seam—couldn’t find anything—no clips, no locks, no joins. Just fabric that wasn’t fabric. Armour that didn’t behave like armour.

He didn’t realise he’d slowed until he reached the corner of her jaw, fingertips drifting just behind her ear. The movement was careful, but not hesitant. He was still looking. Still working. Still following the edge where mask became body and back again.

She didn’t react.

No shift. No retreat.

Didn’t acknowledge the touch at all.

Unknowingly, she was outmatching the strange material in how deeply she unsettled him.

His voice came low, almost accidental.

“Are you human?”

The question landed between them with no force, and not even really with suspicion. Just the weight of something he’d never thought to ask before now.

Because she looked it. Human, that is.

But the suit breathed. The body didn’t flinch. The silence wasn’t blank.

And lately, human hadn’t meant much.

She turned her head at the sound. Just slightly. Enough to show she’d heard him—and understood what he was asking, if not why. Her gaze drifted down to his arm.

She didn’t answer.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything. There was plenty she didn’t know. But something like that—something as intrinsic as species—felt like the kind of knowledge that shouldn’t be easy to misplace.

He didn’t press, just moved again. Slower now, his fingers tracing the line where throat met shoulder, thumb brushing the base of her neck.

And then—something shifted.

No sound. No light. Just a flicker in the air, as if it had thickened between one breath and the next. His skin prickled.

Then came movement.

It wasn’t mechanical, not in the way armour usually gave way. There was no click, no hiss of release—just a sharp pulse that shot through his palm and into his wrist like static. He twitched, reflexive, yanking his hand back just as the mask began to give way.

It peeled away from her face like silk slipping off wet skin. There were no wires he could see, and no solid, segmented plates. It simply retreated—sliding backward beneath her hairline, seamless and soundless—until only skin remained. Like water.

He froze.

Her face, newly exposed, was alarmingly smooth. And startlingly bare. Not unmarred—there were scrapes, smudges, fine flakes of dried blood across her cheek and mouth, but her chin was another story.

For a heartbeat, he thought it was flayed skin. A shredded jaw.

His gut twisted before logic could intervene. His body stepped back. Once. Then again. His mind short-circuited on instinct—triggered, overwhelmed, launching him backward into the dark without permission.

Too many faces. Too many missions. Too much blood. Too many rooms like this one. Bent figures. Open mouths. Eyes wide, glassed over.

It took effort—real effort—to clamp down on it.

He turned away, jaw locked, shoulders held rigid like a brace. The sweat along his brow had gathered unnoticed, collecting in beads that now itched at his temple. He wiped them with the back of his hand, breath sharp through his nose, trying to ride the surge before it broke loose and dragged him under.

Not now. Not here.

He forced himself to look again.

The mask was still gone.

Her face lay intact beneath the grim light—with no wires, no scarring, no mechanical interface. Just skin. Pale and too smooth, untouched by time or expression. Blood dried along her jaw like a smear of rust. Her lips were cracked, her brow uncreased. She looked younger than she should have, younger than anyone had the right to be in that chair.

And her eyes—steady, unwavering—were already on him.

She blinked. Once. No shift of weight. No shrink of discomfort. Her arms remained braced under the press, unmoving. If she noticed the tension raking down his spine, she gave no indication. If she heard the edge in his breath, or saw the ghosts dancing behind his eyes, she didn’t acknowledge them.

“There is a tracker,” she said.

Flat. Uninflected. Like a readout from a machine.

Her gaze didn’t waver. Her tone didn’t rise. She wasn’t asking and she wasn’t pleading. She didn’t even look at him like a person—either of them. Just…targeted him with the sentence. Marked him as the next tool required, as though he’d set her a task and she was feeding him the next step.

“Take it out.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIVE

There should have been satisfaction in watching the Winter Soldier flinch. The unshakable calm cracked for a heartbeat—just long enough for Wraith to glimpse what clawed beneath it.

He smothered the breach fast, burying it beneath discipline so ingrained it felt welded to the bone, but she had seen. Whatever detail in her newly exposed face had dragged him back into living memory—scar, expression, maybe nothing of hers at all.

Maybe it wasn’t her face he saw.

She’d never been pinned under a sheet‑press before, but the chair lingered in the borderland of memory like smoke from a dead fire: heavy leather, cold steel, unrelenting straps. She didn’t remember sitting in it so much as becoming part of it, forged into the frame until separation felt theoretical.

So when cool air touched wet skin—when her mask retracted and room‑temperature met clammy flesh—the moment belonged less to his reaction than to her clarity.

A buried sense flared under her ear: the slide of a scalpel, fingers bracing her jaw. Not rough. Not kind. Simply indifferent. A tracker had been placed there.

Still was.

The information arrived whole, not as revelation but as fact, audible to her pulse: a faint, traitorous beep.

She told him.

It should have reinstated the mission—should have snapped the Soldier back into lethal certainty. Instead he staggered, slow and too human, leaking control while she stayed bolted beneath rusted steel. Her patience thinned to wire.

Weapons weren’t afforded grace. They weren’t even afforded time.

HYDRA would already be triangulating. Two high‑value assets loose, unsupervised—the calculus wrote itself. Yet he stood there, breathing like the world could wait.

Irritation—not empathy—rose.

She hadn’t been granted privacy while he catalogued every shake and weakness. She owed him none.

When he finally turned, the storm behind his eyes had settled, but the sky wasn’t clear. She’d grown careless outside the mask; the rest of her face betrayed what her eyes could not. He saw the impatience, and something in his jaw clicked.

Fog still ringed her thoughts, but the present sharpened enough to register his forward step.

Flesh fingers closed around her throat, settling into the bruises he’d laid earlier. Not choking—just denying movement. Her swallow met an unmoving wall of callus and heat. She lifted her chin; his hand followed. The drag of skin on skin felt impersonal, like stone warmed by the sun.

She held his gaze. Same winter‑pale irises, but now freighted with something volatile. A man cracking. The Soldier’s logic had been cold but readable: variables in, outcomes out. This man was chaos—human enough to hesitate, human enough to snap.

If he killed her, it would be by accident of fracture, not design.

She didn’t resist.

Didn’t panic.

Just noted the weight of him.

And recognised it.

Not the pain, but the risk.

Her eyelids lowered just as his grip shifted—tightening, settling. She let the breath leave her chest.

Speak to the Soldier, not the man.

“I didn’t know,” she rasped.

He shifted grip, thumb probing the spot beneath her ear where memory burned brightest—scar hidden under armour. He pressed.

"I can’t go back," she said. "If it means death, do it."

Silence pooled. He weighed something invisible.

Then the decision arrived—swift, surgical. Her own blade found her skin. Cold edge slid beneath the ear, parting flesh in a wet hiss. Pain flared, bright as solder. She remained still; jaw locked.

Steel snagged on polymer. He angled, pushed. Nerves screamed. When the tracker tore free it made a noise she felt in her teeth.

Blood ran warm down her neck.

He held the capsule between two metal fingers, examined its lethal smallness, then crushed it like ash and ground the shards into the concrete.

Then, he let her go.

The press hissed open.

She dropped like a puppet with its strings cut—shoulders slamming back into the warped chair as the sudden absence of support hit her twice in quick succession.

She folded forward, lungs dragging in cold air she hadn’t realised she’d rationed. Arms numb, sockets aflame, she flexed until pins‑and‑needles turned to pain she could use.

The Soldier had taken a step back.

Not far. Not enough to lower the threat. Just enough to observe. Like he was waiting—for her to lunge, to bolt, to make a decision he could intercept. Perhaps even a reason to correct his first mistake. His weight was poised over the balls of his feet, eyes sharp but unreadable, shoulders loose in that deceptive, pre-emptive way trained killers carried themselves.

She didn’t move.

Not because she was afraid. Not because she was unsure.

Because she wasn’t conflicted.

The urge inside her—raw, elemental, inarguable—was singular. Survival. It pulsed beneath her ribs with steady insistence, louder than pain, stronger than fatigue. It was the only thing she could call hers. The only instinct she recognised as familiar.

Not mercy. Not morality. Not even freedom.

Just survival.

Her memories were fractured. Her identity, a question. HYDRA’s programming, still active in some recess she hadn’t reached, but able to be ignored. She didn’t know who she was, but she knew what she was. What she had been made to be.

And soldat did not waste energy.

Soldat did not act without cause and did not base decisions on emotion.

Running made no sense. She didn’t know the city, didn’t know the perimeter, didn’t know who was watching or what lay beyond the rusted doors. Every variable outside this room was unknown. And he—whatever he’d become—was known. At least a little. He had cut the tracker out of her neck. He hadn’t killed her. Yet.

That made him useful.

She catalogued him that way. Not as an ally. Not yet. Not even as a comrade. Just a constant. A fixed point in a shifting equation. For now, that made him the closest thing she had to a plan.

The remnants of the tracker were indistinguishable now—reduced to blackened dust, ground so thoroughly into the concrete that not even the blood clinging to it gave shape. The pulse it had been emitting—vitals, location, whatever HYDRA used to keep its ghosts on the leash—was gone.

One failure might have registered as a blip. Heartline lost. A temporary malfunction. But both? A missing signal and a flatline?

That sent up a flare.

Her pulse kicked once. It wasn’t panic. She couldn’t call it panic. It was a recalibration—a shift in her next focus.

“How long?”

The question rasped up her throat, rough-edged and uneven. She couldn’t blame him for all of it. Her body still hadn’t caught up to itself—nerves frayed, tissue singing. The pain she could manage. It was the rest that would slow her down.

He didn’t look at her when he answered. His jaw shifted once. “Not long.”

She drew in through her nose, eyes narrowing slightly as they returned to him. He was still—composed enough to be read as calm. But she’d seen the difference now. She knew what the quiet meant. What it covered. Beneath that blank expression, he was measuring, watching, already a dozen steps ahead of where they were. Doing the same calculations as her and coming to the same conclusion a second before.

He’d given her more than he should have.

A clean break. A window. A moment. Enough time to vanish—if she wanted it. If she could take it.

Why didn’t matter because the logic didn’t hold. Not unless he’d lost his edge. Or his mind. And she didn’t believe that. He was conflicted. Infected. Defective. But there was still plenty of soldat lingering.

She might examine it later, turn the moment over in her mind, but she doubted it would yield anything worthwhile. Whatever softness had driven the decision; it wasn’t something she recognised. If their roles were reversed, she would’ve ended it while he was unconscious. Not out of even professional respect, just pure convenience.

But she wasn’t in his position.

She was in hers. And hers required clarity.

“How did you do it?”

He looked at her, faintly frowning.

“Do what?”

“Get out,” she snapped. “Stay out.”

The words landed flat. His expression didn’t shift. Just a slight hardening in the eyes, something she might have missed before—but now, in full view of his face, she saw the refusal settle. He didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned from her, crossed the warehouse, and pulled a fraying backpack from the dark. It hung from one strap over his shoulder, swinging with his movement as he headed toward the exit. Like this was done.

She swallowed as her anger stuttered. It didn’t dissolve, just broke rhythm in an unfamiliar way that was steadily becoming alarmingly frequent.

“Where do I go?”

His stride didn’t falter. “Not my problem.”

A dry sound escaped her throat. Not quite a laugh. Not quite breath. “They’ll come for me.”

“Then you’d better start running.”

She stood from the chair, testing her legs. Her knees buckled for half a second, then steadied. She pushed up onto her toes, seeking balance—or maybe assurance—but the movement felt off. Loose. Almost nervous.

Her muscles knew better than this. But her body, it seemed, had caught on to something her mind refused to name.

She was afraid.

“What if they send the others?”

He stopped.

Not for long. But long enough. She saw the slight hitch in his frame, the way his shoulder edged back, as if some old mechanism had stuttered. She didn’t need him to turn around to know she’d struck something real.

Of course he’d thought about it. He hadn’t been fogged like her. Hadn’t been scrambled and welded into someone else. He’d been lucid. He’d known exactly what she was from the moment she attacked him—and still, he’d spared her.

Which meant he’d already done the math.

HYDRA would sweep the area. Run diagnostics. Find no vitals. No signal. No body. And when they did, they’d correct the error, improve the programming and refine the replacements.

They wouldn’t send another version of her.

They’d send five.

And next time, they wouldn’t underestimate him.

“Do you plan to free every single one of them?” she pressed, her voice low and deliberate.

He didn’t turn.

“I already regret this one.”

It might have stung. Maybe it did. But whatever flicker of injury she might have felt was secondary to the opportunity.

She stepped closer—not enough to threaten, but enough to force proximity. Enough to make herself a problem.

When she’d wanted pragmatism, she’d spoken to the soldier. The one who thought with precision and calculation—weighed options in fact, not feeling—but now she needed something else. Something messier and illogical.

She needed the man.

The one still holding the door open.

“You haven’t saved me,” she told him, voice steady, “if you leave me here.”

His head tipped back, face lifting to the ceiling like he was searching for divine patience.

“You wanted me to kill you.”

It wasn’t an accusation. He said it like a fact. A problem with a simple solution.

And maybe it was. Maybe that was still the cleanest answer. One cut. One second. No pain beyond the first breath stolen. Leaving no questions left to ask and no fear left to be felt. He could do it—he was offering her that—and she wouldn’t stop him. Not if her only other option was to surrender. To fail.

Because whatever else she was, whatever had been done to her, undone in her, and remade inside of her—she could not go back. That was the one truth that had survived the washout. The only one that mattered.

She wasn’t afraid of dying.

She was afraid of going back to sleep. Of living in those nightmares until they met again and she dragged him back to hell, or he finally made good on his offer.

So why merely delay the inevitable?

“They won’t stop.”

“I know—”

“Then you know I won’t make it out. And neither will you.”

Her voice rose—not loud or broken, but driven—each word carved from something deeper. Her breath tightened in her chest, but she forced it through. “Sooner or later, alone, we’ll both end up back in that chair.”

The phrase landed like a hammer. She had no need for poetry. There was no strength in metaphor. She just needed the image. As real and raw in his head as it was in hers. The chair. The restraints. The sting of disinfectant and the hum of machines and the silence after your name was taken.

Saying it out loud was like spitting blood onto clean snow.

She could see it—her own return. They’d strap her down, wipe every shard of memory she’d managed to scavenge so far and send her back into the dark with new instructions and a clearer directive: bring him in. Break him if you have to. Kill him if you can’t.

He had to know that. Had to have considered the iterations—two soldiers, then three. Then a squadron. Once was failure. Twice was design.

His stillness was pointed now. As though his lack of reaction would make her words untrue.

But they were already circling him. Already in the room. He could taste the bite guard, she knew, because it coated her tongue like burnt oil.

All he did was breathe. Steady. Silent. Like she hadn’t just named the nightmare he spent every waking moment outrunning.

Then—

His head turned. Just slightly. Like he’d heard something inside himself that couldn’t be ignored any longer.

She watched the shift take place—not a decision, not exactly. It was more like a slow, reluctant aligning of facts he didn’t want to face but had been sitting in the back of his mind since he’d decided not to kill her. She could see it pass through him like a shadow changing direction. The numbers had come in and there was only one answer. She didn’t know whether it was logic or sentiment that had won, but it cost him something.

She didn’t care. She had no need for clean victories.

When he faced her fully it was without warmth. No trust or invitation. Just the reluctant acceptance that she was now a variable in his equation. A threat worth managing. A consequence he couldn’t afford to let out of his sight.

And he wasn’t sure who he hated more for ending up in this situation—her or himself.

Then, a single exhale. Sharp. A man pulling a knife from his own side.

“We have to get out of the city.”

Relief struck so hard it almost bent her in half.

She hid it. Bit down on it like she might a scream. Let it sink, deep and silent, where he couldn’t see.

There would be time for everything else later. The search for understanding and memory. And perhaps grief as of yet unfelt.

But for now, she had what she needed: enough to get to the next step, to ensure she had time. And she’d make damn sure not to waste it.

*

They moved through the dark streets, slipping between shadows, treating every spill of streetlight like a tripwire. She kept close, but not behind—never behind. He chose the direction; she dictated the pace. Each step deliberate. The map already drawn in her mind, every exit, every blind spot. Her nerves pulled taut beneath skin still warm with friction.

He was injured. Slower than he should have been.

The scent of dried blood clung to his jacket and jeans—sharp, iron-rich and familiar.

It hadn’t been obvious at first. The mask of control still fit him well. Silent. Straight-backed. But it was a mask, and she knew how to read the fractures. A subtle hitch in his stride. The soft scrape of one foot dragging a beat behind the other. Two short breaths. One long. A rhythm carved by broken ribs, maybe worse.

She wasn’t without damage either, but a bruised throat and a handful of scrapes weren’t going to slow her down.

It had been hours since she’d cut him open. Crushed cartilage. Torn muscle. He should have been in a worse state. Should have been slower still.

But here he was, keeping pace. He didn’t stumble, or stop.

Weakness, no matter how well hidden, still got you killed.

They were moving for distance—putting space between themselves and the signal they’d just triggered. Escape was one thing. Evasion, another. When HYDRA came—and they would—every second he lost to pain would cost them both.

She didn’t intend to share the price.

For now, he was still a resource. A valuable one. But the moment he slowed her down, she’d leave him.

Civilisation crept back in gradually—broken pavement, strip-lit windows, the hum of street-level neon. A run-down district fringed with shadows and the people who lurked in them.

She didn’t realise they were heading to a safehouse until he palmed a key from his pocket and unlocked a rusted door two floors up. There was no hesitation in the motion. Pure muscle memory. Like he’d done it a hundred times.

A permanent residence.

She filed that away.

She waited at the threshold—not out of distrust, not yet—but to watch. To log the way he moved through the space. How natural it was. Whether this was part of a practiced routine. Whether she’d made the right calculation entrusting even a fraction of her survival to him.

Because she didn’t need a man.

She needed a soldat. Not someone who stopped to pick up a polaroid of his mother when he should’ve been running the other way.

The apartment was a shoebox. Functional. Bare. No sign of comfort or indulgence. A mattress on the floor, sunken with age. One blanket. One pillow. A table with a splintered leg, held together by folded cardboard. A scorched plastic chair that looked half-melted. The supplies were sparse but practical: high-calorie bars, tins of dense protein, three litres of water lined up on the floor. She swept the room once, fast.

Sufficient. Standard. No sentiment.

Until her eyes landed on something that didn’t fit.

The radio.

Old. Too old to be useful. Dustless. Deliberate.

Her gaze narrowed.

He didn’t look at it. Didn’t acknowledge her shift in focus. Just stepped past, dropped the pack, and stripped out of his jacket. The motion was stiff, his posture guarded. He turned his back before pulling his shirt over his head, hiding the damage—though not well enough.

Angry red lines traced half-healed wounds across his ribs, framed by the bruising she’d left behind.

She’d done more damage than she thought.

The Winter Soldier’s value diminished accordingly.

He dressed in silence. Dark, indistinct clothes. Nothing memorable. When he finished, he tossed a bundle toward her.

“Put those on.”

His tone was flat. The pause that followed wasn’t. His eyes flicked—just for a moment—to the armour sealed against her skin. Sleek and seamless, it shifted subtly with her breath. The tactical shell over it did little to disguise what lay beneath.

When she didn’t move, his gaze returned to hers. More explanation this time than order. Still dry. Still detached.

“We need to blend in.”

The irritation that bloomed under her skin wasn’t for him.

It was for herself.

She hadn’t been defying him. She’d followed. She’d ceded control. This wasn’t rebellion. It was the silent, coiled frustration of realising they were both compromised now.

He was wounded.

And she was marked.

The suit was wrong. Visibly, palpably wrong. It screamed other. It invited questions. She needed it gone. But it wouldn’t go.

She’d known it wasn’t standard the moment it sealed her scream. She could feel it—alive, almost—pulsing across her skin like breath, no seams, no release mechanism, no air between her and it. It wasn’t just worn. It was integrated.

So she’d assumed it would obey.

It hadn’t. Not when she’d needed it to retract so she could move. Not when she’d been ready to break her own bones to get free. She’d tried. Focused. Dug through every door in her mind looking for the trigger—

Nothing.

Not resistance. Not error.

Refusal.

It had felt sentient. Felt aware. Like it had teeth. Like it understood her intent and clamped tighter. It hadn’t just bound her. It had locked her in.

She felt that same pressure now. That quiet defiance crawling over her skin like static. It wouldn’t budge. Wouldn’t even shift.

Maybe it was programming. Some failsafe HYDRA embedded deep. Something she hadn’t been trained to override.

But then—why had it opened for him?

Her jaw locked tight.

She hadn’t forgotten the moment. The way he’d steadied her neck. The split-second between contact and retreat when the mask had withdrawn, liquid and precise. It hadn’t responded to her. Not once. Not after an hour of effort. But it had opened for him.

She hadn’t had time to process that before. She barely had time now.

Still, the thought scraped like a blade against bone.

He must have seen it in her eyes. His own jaw ticked, and his voice cut across the static between them.

“Just keep it covered for now.”

She nodded once and pulled the jacket over her shoulders.

It was far too large. The sleeves dropped past her fingertips, the hem brushed her thighs—but it covered the suit. That was all that mattered.

The trousers were worse. They dragged at her heels, caught beneath her boots. She stripped the holsters from her thighs and calves, dropped them on the table with a clatter, then rolled the waistband low and let the excess gather at her hips.

The cap felt redundant without the mask, but she fitted it on anyway, low across her brow. Obedience to him came easier in small concessions.

Behind her, he swept the last of their supplies into his pockets—cash, a Swiss army knife, a few pins clipped together like spare teeth. Then he crossed to the door, glanced once down the hallway, and held still.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Clipped. Final.

“We move together.”

She turned to face him, catching the weight beneath it.

It wasn’t a suggestion.

He’d felt it too—the friction. The way she’d checked corners he’d already cleared, the half-step she’d taken to overtake him. Two predators, one path. Instinct clashing with instinct.

She met his gaze, jaw set. Not defiant. But not yielding, either.

She gave him the only answer that didn’t feel like surrender.

A nod.

Not agreement. But close enough to pass.

He waited one beat longer, then jerked his chin to the hallway.

The city opened up like a wound—wide, raw, bleeding neon across wet asphalt. They moved quickly, but not fast enough to draw eyes. Their boots echoed low through the back streets, muted by moisture and distance, but the silence didn’t last. The arterial road ahead pulsed with life: footsteps, engines, scattered voices.

A transport hub.

It was a bold choice. Public transport meant exposure. It meant sharing space with the same people for minutes, sometimes hours. Long enough for someone to notice something was off.

It was a calculated risk—and not one she would’ve taken.

They hit the main street like a rip current breaching the surface. Harsh light poured from overhead lamps, white-hot and unforgiving. Her eyes tracked everything with equal suspicion. The man pacing with a phone to his ear. The woman wrangling three children toward the crosswalk. The slow-moving cab rolling past like surveillance. No tails. But the quiet was too clean to feel safe.

She didn’t realise how close she’d drifted until a rough tug wrenched her under his arm.

Not gentle. Not careful. Disguised as intimacy, but delivered like a warning.

She stumbled once, adjusted. Her elbow hit his side—right over the healing ribs—but he didn’t react.

“Keep your head down,” he muttered, angling her into the crook of his body like it was routine. “Stay close. Watch the women on the platform. Learn.”

She stiffened under the contact. Her pulse kicked, sharp and immediate, for reasons she refused to name. He yanked the cap lower over her brow, and it took effort not to reach up and tear it off just to spite him.

He was irritated. She could feel it in the sharpness of his touch, the clipped edge of his voice. Not rage. Not fear. Just a low, controlled frustration. Like she wasn’t blending in well enough. Like she was a liability.

“This isn’t usually how I traverse a city,” she muttered, tone dry.

He didn’t answer.

They crossed into the floodlights of the station, and she swallowed her pride with the sharp edges of her tongue.

She’d been trained to move through kill zones, to exude confidence and threat in equal measure. This—this quiet civilian shuffle under jaundiced lights and wary glances—felt foreign. Unnatural. It scraped at her nerves like sandpaper.

Still, she kept pace.

A handful of women lingered near the platform, scattered like loose feathers. None stood truly alone. Their bodies curled inward as if making themselves smaller might lessen the chance of being noticed. Heads bowed. Eyes flicking between their screens and the men around them. It wasn’t overt. It didn’t need to be. The tension lived in the pattern. In how each of them marked the distance between comfort and threat—and adjusted accordingly.

The ones who arrived in pairs weren’t much different. Same tight shoulders. Same glances over shoulders. But they touched the men beside them. Palms to backs. Fingers at elbows. One girl leaned so heavily against her companion it looked like she might fold if he moved.

Proximity as camouflage. A shared illusion that safety came from nearness.

She watched without emotion.

This was not her species.

She didn’t huddle. Didn’t tether. She didn’t flinch at shadows—she hunted in them. What she saw wasn’t weakness, exactly. But it wasn’t intelligence either. Just animal reflex. Herd instinct. A dance of prey.

Still, survival was mimicry, when necessary.

And the Winter Soldier had told her to learn.

She drew herself in tighter beneath his arm, shoulders tucked, chin angled just enough to read as comfort. Slowly—deliberately—she slipped her hand under his coat, palm braced across the curve of his spine.

Heat met her skin. Human. Solid. She could feel his breath rise and fall against her wrist, steady and real, the weight of his body enough to register as deterrent by mass alone.

Biologically, it tracked. Proximity to strength. Reduced profile. Shared thermal regulation. Even his scent triggered involuntary cues: testosterone, clean sweat, faint antiseptic. Calming, in theory.

She understood the mechanics. But it didn’t make it strategic.

She couldn’t reach a weapon. Couldn’t rotate her right arm. His shoulder blocked half her sightline, and she’d lost count of the exits without shifting. Her knife hand was pinned beneath his coat.

This wasn’t cover.

It was submission.

And these women called it safety.

The Winter Soldier shifted. A subtle correction, barely more than a step—but it snapped her attention back into place. Her stomach rolled. She hadn’t even registered the train. Missed the brake screech, the gust of wind, the metallic whine as it pulled in. Her situational awareness—normally knifepoint sharp—had dulled.

Unacceptable.

He stepped toward the platform edge, casual and slow, the picture of a man herding his girl home after a long night. She followed, matching his pace. Head down. Face empty.

Then something rolled over her scalp. A flicker. A shift.

A warning.

Her eyes cut left—and caught.

A man stood ten feet from the queue, stock-still. Tactical gear. Station-issue, but the rifle in his hands was real and cocked. Not security. Not crowd control. His stance was too firm, his grip too practiced, his trigger discipline textbook. Eyes moving in a grid.

She pressed her palm harder into the Soldier’s back. “We’re not alone,” she murmured into his neck.

“I see him.”

Of course he did. The uniform could’ve been neon, and it wouldn’t have hidden the posture, the training. They’d both worn it. Bled in it.

But he didn’t react. Didn’t tense. His body stayed loose.

And she hated how much that steadiness settled her pulse.

“Train,” he said quietly. “Now.”

They slipped through the crowd unhurried, the kind of pace that suggested direction without urgency. She moved in sync with his tension, not her own, syncing her tempo to his pulse. When the carriage door hissed open, they boarded together—her body tucked in beside his like shadow.

The compartment was dim and stale, lined with brittle plastic and soft rot. The air hung heavy with mildew and machine oil. A few civilians sat scattered along the rows, dulled by fatigue, too drained to notice anything but their own exhaustion.

He didn’t drop the act. His arm stayed tight around her waist, guiding her down beside him. He sat first and pulled her with him, anchoring her in place. She settled with resistance. Her frame conformed unwillingly to the cradle of his body, bent into compliance. The beat of his heart thudded against her ribs, maddening in its steadiness. Her own was starting to hitch.

“Keep your head down,” he said against her temple. One hand pulled her hair forward like a curtain, shielding her face from the rest of the car.

She fought the instinct to pull away.

He’d blinded her. Crippled her reach. Tethered her in plain sight.

The act was working, but it felt like a noose. Every muscle had gone taut in protest, nerves misfiring as her body whispered the orders she refused to obey: move. Pivot. Strike.

He could feel it. She knew. The muscle in his jaw flexed once. His hand shifted against her side, not for comfort—just pressure.

“Relax,” he muttered. Low. Flat. Not a request.

She forced it. Dropped her shoulders. Breathed through her nose. Began scanning again, keeping to the windows and reflections. Counting bodies. Calculating exits.

The train lurched into motion. For a breath, she let herself believe it might hold. That the doors had closed cleanly behind them. That the agent was still on the platform, scouring the space they’d already vacated.

Then he tensed.

Barely. But it was enough.

She didn’t need him to say it.

They weren’t ghosts yet.

She reached up and pulled her hair out of her face, shifting just enough to free her line of sight. There—through the window into the next carriage. Moving slow. Purposeful.

The agent.

He swept the rows with trained, mechanical precision. Each face was studied with equal care. His rifle stayed cradled to his chest, muzzle low. Controlled. Familiar—but not fluid. She clocked the slack in his wrist, the strain in his forearm. He knew how to hold the weapon, but not how to wield it. Every sound pulled his attention too quickly. Every movement delayed his response.

Simulated training. Not live fire.

Not enhanced.

“We can avoid him,” the Soldier said, shifting beside her. His weight drew in like a loaded spring. “We get off at the next—”

“No.”

The word came sharp and final.

He froze. “No?”

She rose, peeling away from the crook of his arm like shedding dead skin.

“We don’t run from things we can kill.”

His voice snapped low behind her. “Hey. Stop—”

But she was already walking.

If he wanted to make a scene by dragging her back, fine. She’d followed him this far—through alleyways, into the skeleton of his stolen life, all the way to a transport hub she’d known was a mistake—and hadn’t questioned his lead.

Now he could return the favour.

She didn’t hear another word from him. Only the moment he fell in behind her—a step heavier than necessary. A trace too loud.

His irritation had found teeth.

Good. Let him be angry. Anger was cleaner than fear.

Ahead, the agent adjusted. She caught it in her peripheral—the way his gaze snagged on them. Their shift from passive passengers to people with intent had tipped him off. His eyes narrowed. Curious now.

She let him be.

The crowd thinned. More space meant more room to work. She wasn’t listening for footsteps—she was listening for heartbeat. She’d already found his in the din: skittering, erratic. Not stressed. Not yet. Just alive in the way animals were before the chase.

He followed.

Not reckless. Not cautious. Just convinced he was the predator.

He wasn’t.

She and the Winter Soldier had already chosen him.

The final carriage was quieter. Sparse. Commuters curled into coats and screens. No security. No rear exit.

Perfect.

She felt the shift in the Soldier behind her. Irritation pulsed off him, heat blooming at her back. His breath, sharper now, cut through his nose. He didn’t want this. She didn’t care.

If he wanted to be a man—fine. But she needed a weapon at her back, not a bleeding heart.

She tilted her chin toward the far end of the carriage. Gave him a look that allowed no discussion. Then moved—slipping behind the luggage rack. Hidden. Waiting.

The agent was coming.

Let him.

Let him try.

She counted his steps—

The door slid open.

And she struck.

Her elbow smashed into his throat before recognition could reach his eyes. Cartilage crushed beneath the blow—he gagged, stumbled. She tore the rifle from his weakening grip and tossed it behind her without a glance.

No clatter. No shot.

The Winter Soldier had caught it. At least he was useful for that.

The agent staggered into the join between carriages, off-balance and gasping. She followed.

Screams erupted. Civilians bolted for the rear, panic sharpening the air. The door didn’t give. Locked. They were trapped. All of them.

Her knee slammed into his ribs, collapsed what was left of his breath. She yanked the blade from the sheath at his thigh like it was hers by right.

There was no thought involved. Never was.

She drove the knife into the nerve beneath his jaw, angled perfectly. He cried out, swung wild. She caught his wrist. Twisted. Popped the joint.

He howled.

She didn’t stop.

Her fist broke his nose—cartilage crushed, blood misting the walls. He sagged. She hauled him up by the hair, slammed him into the glass panel. Again. Again. Bone gave. The surface slicked red.

Still breathing.

Still moving.

Again.

Again.

He began to drown in it.

“That’s enough.”

She didn’t hear it.

The Soldier was peripheral—nothing more than a silhouette. The only thing that mattered was the man still twitching. Still existing. Still reminding her.

Her knee drove up into his gut. She twisted him down, forced him onto his stomach—one arm pinned, head wrenched back, blade to the throat.

“I said—that’s enough.”

It hit like a trigger pull.

His hand clamped down on her shoulder—unmoving, cold. The voice behind her cracked with something hard, unmistakable. Not command. Not warning. A line.

Her breath thundered in her lungs, every muscle straining on the edge of motion, slick with blood and ghosted violence.

Then she blinked.

And saw.

The agent’s mouth hung open, glazed eyes fixed on the ceiling. His throat—shredded meat. His chest unmoving. He’d been dead for a while.

She let him go.

He dropped like waste, limbs folding beneath him, leaving a smear down the door. Her lip curled. She spat—the glob landing wet on his cheek.

Then silence fell.

Not peace. Not calm. Just weight.

Dense. Suffocating.

The sound of absence—of four civilians holding their breath at once.

She turned.

They were still huddled by the doors, faces pallid, eyes wide and stunned. One had tears streaking her cheeks. Another had wet himself.

Witnesses.

Her gaze dropped to the rifle in the Soldier’s grip.

She reached.

He moved faster.

The gun disappeared behind his back as he stepped into her path, broad and immovable.

“No loose ends—”

“If you touch them,” he cut in, voice low and seething, “it won’t just be Hydra on our trail. And I swear to God, I’ll end this myself before I let you turn this into a bloodbath.”

His grip landed again—metal fingers, bruising and final.

She glanced down at his hand. Measured. Ran the math.

Was this it? The split?

“You don’t get to draw that line,” she muttered.

“Watch me.”

Silence swallowed the rest.

They stood there, locked in a heat that wasn’t anger, not exactly. Not mercy either. The train pressed in on all sides, the carriage suddenly too hot. Her breath sounded too loud. The rest of the world had gone mute. She could see herself in his eyes—feral, flushed, streaked in blood. No mask. No name. Just her.

Something cracked. Quiet. Internal.

Not regret.

Just calculation.

Because she had no other options.

She tore herself from his grip, boots ringing on metal as she stalked toward the door.

At the edge, she paused.

Turned. Slowly. No gesture. No words.

Just a look.

She dragged her gaze across the passengers, one by one. Let them see her. Let them feel the weight of almost. Let them remember.

Because the Soldier might still have mercy.

But she hadn’t found any left in herself.

*

They didn’t resume the cover.

No more hands around shoulders. No more practiced stroll. No more pretence.

This station was smaller. Dimmer. Set on the outer limits of the city, the kind of stop forgotten by time. Their boots struck tile softened by age, grit gathering in the seams. The crowd—sparse to begin with—thinned further with every turn. Bystanders peeled off into streets and alleys, leaving nothing behind but the silence that trailed in their wake.

No alarms. No shouts.

For now, the Winter Soldier’s stunt hadn’t fucked them entirely. But it wouldn’t last. And the knowledge of that looming threat—one they didn’t have to take—settled like led in her stomach.

And then she noticed his hands were empty.

Her frustration boiled over.

Only then did she speak.

“You left it?” Her voice was sharp, practically hissed. She nodded to his empty hands. “The rifle. You left it.”

He didn’t answer. Just grabbed her by the shoulder with his metal hand and shoved her back against the nearest wall. Hard enough that the breath caught in her chest. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her to be careful.

“What aren’t you getting?” he ground out, his face inches from hers, eyes dark.

His voice was low but dangerous. It rumbled, full of heat and stripped of all patience. She could feel the fury in it, the line it threatened to cross.

She refused to shrink.

“What aren’t you getting?” she threw back, voice low and cool. “There are four witnesses on that train who will talk. Who will tell the next agent they find exactly what they saw. Dva soldata. Working together.”

He practically growled as his grip tightened, threatening to rip the seams.

She leaned in a fraction, teeth bared just enough to cut. “Your little mercy stunt just shortened the rope around our necks.”

Something flickered behind his eyes—pain, maybe. Or rage. Or both.

“Mercy isn’t weakness,” he said, every syllable clipped.

She shoved his hands off her, the metal grip peeling away from her jacket, but she didn’t move further. Just let the heat burn between them. A standoff measured in breath.

“Think what you want,” she said, voice flat. “But pretending your hands will ever be clean—”

“I know they won’t,” he cut in. “But I can make damn sure they don’t get any filthier.”

Her expression twisted. “For what? You think any of this matters?”

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, jaw set, fury tight at the seams.

They weren’t going to agree. They weren’t even arguing the same point. Different lines. Different worlds.

He’d left the rifle behind. On purpose. She saw that now. He wouldn’t kill civilians. Not even to save himself.

Fine.

She would do it for him.

“I’m not going back,” she said, quieter now. “If I have to cut through every city between here and hell, I will. You don’t have to like it. But don’t get in my way again.”

She turned. Left him in the dark with nothing but his silence.

She didn’t check if he followed.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIX

They’d been walking for days.

Through fields, woodland, terrain that punished every step. Always at the edges—never a road, never a path. He’d steered them away from civilisation deliberately. Out here, there were fewer people to watch them. Fewer bystanders for her to cut down without hesitation. Fewer moments where he might have to step in and stop her.

He wasn’t sure if he could.

Not without hurting her.

And he didn’t want to hurt her.

The truth had landed hard—unexpected and unwelcome—in the alleyway, somewhere between the echo of her boots walking away from him and the blood she hadn’t bothered to wipe from her cheek. She hadn’t flinched. Not once. Not even when his metal arm threw her hard enough to shake the wall behind her.

The lack of fear unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

She didn’t kill for pleasure. He could see that now. It wasn’t bloodlust that drove her; it was conviction. Clean, practiced efficiency. Her detachment was almost surgical—no hesitation, no cruelty. Just cause and effect.

The way she did it was what disturbed him. Not because it was foreign.

But because it wasn’t.

He recognised it. The economy of movement. The prioritisation of threat. The way her body never relaxed, even when they rested—if she sat at all. It was the same way he’d moved for years. Not when he was himself, but when he wasn’t. And that was what chilled him.

She was scared. That was what she didn’t want him to see. He wasn’t even sure she saw it in herself. Not through the forced control and reaching for power.

The thought of going back terrified her.

The chair. The dark. The soldier within. All waiting for her to make a mistake.

She would do anything—kill, run, burn the whole world—before she let that happen again.

He didn’t know how long she’d lived that way. How long she’d been under. How long since she’d thought like a person and not a weapon. Every decision she made now seemed like a negotiation between instinct and programming, with no clear line between them. She wasn’t sure where the Asset ended and she began.

And maybe neither was he.

But he knew this: she didn’t need more pain. She’d had enough of that.

She thought mercy was weakness.

But she was only here because of it. She’d manipulated him into extending it.  

And so, no—he wouldn’t hurt her. Not to stop her. Not even to save her from herself.

She hadn’t spoken much, and he hadn’t forced it.

He understood her silence. Her distrust—in him, in herself. He’d lived in that state for six months now. That taut, breathless paranoia. The constant weight of phantom eyes on your back, the knowledge—not fear, knowledge—that they’d come. Eventually. That going back wasn’t just possible, it was inevitable. Just a matter of time.

What made it worse was how part of you started to want it. Not because you wanted them to win, but because you wanted to stop losing. To stop running. Stop thinking. Let the silence come and swallow you whole.

She wasn’t there yet.

She wasn’t afraid in the way he’d been. What lived under her skin—fed by the terror—was rage. Hot and coiled. Not directed outward so much as everywhere. Frustration. Disorientation. Something trying to surface that never quite made it. He suspected memory, half-formed and splintering apart the second she looked at it. She couldn’t stay still for more than a few minutes. Pacing, checking the horizon, touching the knife in her pocket like it might vanish if she didn’t.

He didn’t tell her to stop.

It wasn’t his place. She didn’t need soothing. And he knew any attempt to alleviate her concern would be met with hostility first and then dismissal.

But soon, he’d have to make a call.

The last town had been two days back. They hadn’t entered—just skirted the edge long enough to fill a single bottle of water. It sat in his jacket pocket now, warm from body heat. Half empty. Neither of them had slept. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten more than an hour or two, even before he left Bucharest. She never said a word about rest, and be wouldn’t the first to admit he needed it.

It had become a silent battle of wills. As if each of them was waiting for the other to falter, to show weakness, to misstep. He didn’t know what winning would look like, but losing would mean stopping. And neither of them seemed willing to do that.

His body throbbed with the echo of wounds half-healed. The bruises had settled into sickly yellow shadows. The deeper lacerations were all closed now—pale and tight. But the ache in his ribs hadn’t faded nearly as much. It was in the way his stride shortened, in the drag of his arm when he reached for anything with his flesh hand. He was running on fumes.

But a soldat did not stop.

Which meant if he wanted to rest, he had to blink first.

At the base of the next rise, he slowed to a stop. The absence of his footsteps made her turn, and for the first time in hours, he saw her face fully.

It had hollowed in the last day.

The bruises under her eyes had deepened into something sunken. Her cheeks had thinned, lips dry and chapped. Sweat and dirt straked her jaw where hair had clung before drying into knots. Stands poked from under the cap in matted curls, stiff with grime. She looked like a ghost in borrowed clothing. With the armour that made her so foreboding hidden, she looked like nothing but a shell in motion.

He wasn’t in better shape, but he didn’t have to look at himself.

“We’re resting here,” he said.

Her expression didn’t shift. “Keep walking.”

“No.”

His voice landed like a brick—solid, unmoved. “The weather’s clear. We’re miles from the next town. This is the time.”

She turned fully; jaw clenched hard enough he could see the muscle jumping beneath her skin. The fire in her eyes flared, but it was dimmer than it had been in the alley. Not gone. But flickering.

She was waning. Even if she didn’t know it yet.

That was fine. He’d know it for the both of them.

If she needed him to be weak to admit it—if that’s what she wanted to call it—then so be it. Call it softness. Call it sense. He wasn’t going to run her into the ground out of pride. Not when the real threat was still out there, and neither of them had bullets left to waste on each other.

She knew it too. Maybe not consciously. But she didn’t argue this time.

She scoffed instead. One sharp exhale through her nose, like he wasn’t worth the breath. But her boots didn’t move. Her hands twitched at her sides, caught between reflexes. Still running calculations. If she stopped, could she restart? Was this a trap? Would she wake up chained to something? Could he be trusted?

He didn’t rush her.

He set the pack down. Dropped beside it with a soundless exhale that might’ve been relief if he’d let it last more than a second. The ground bit cold and uneven into the meat of his thighs, but it was solid. Still.

Eventually, she sat too.

Not beside him. Not close. Not in the least bit comfortable.

Just still.

And for now, that was enough.

He dug through the bag, each movement slower than it should have been. The thing had only grown heavier with every mile, weighted with damp fabric, cheap metal, and the kind of fatigue that couldn’t be set down. He came up with a chunk of bread that had started to fossilise around the edges and a wedge of cheese gone waxy with age. It would keep them upright. That was all that mattered.

He didn’t ask if she wanted any. Just held it out.

She looked at it. Then at him. Then back at the bread like it confirmed every suspicion she’d had—that mercy was a sickness, and he was already too far gone.

Had he been this difficult in the beginning?

Yes. Probably worse.

But he’d been alone.

She wasn’t.

“Starve, then,” he said flatly.

Something in her expression flickered—an eye-roll, maybe. Or the impulse to smack it from his hand and walk off on principle. But she didn’t. She snatched the food from him and tore off a bite with the same precision she applied to violence. No pause. No gratitude. Just fuel.

She ate like he did. Fast. Functional. No thought for flavour or texture. Just the mechanics of survival.

He didn’t comment.

The silence stretched between them. Not quite companionable, but not hostile either. Just there. He let it settle. Let it fill the space while she chewed and he counted heartbeats.

“We’ll need to resupply,” he said eventually. His tone was neutral. Low. “Either we steal or we find work.”

She didn’t glance up. Just muttered through a mouthful of crust, “Thought you were a good guy now.”

He ignored it. Let the jab hit and pass. Otherwise, they’d never make it through a conversation.

“I’ve got a preference,” he said. “But we need food or cash to make the border. Either works.”

That made her pause. She slowed her chewing, just slightly. Her eyes flicked toward him once—sharp, sceptical.

“You have a plan?”

She didn’t sound impressed.

He didn’t take it personally.

The path they’d taken looked erratic. To anyone else, it might’ve seemed like aimless scrambling, a man running on instinct or desperation. Which, to be fair, wasn’t far off. The zig-zag pattern, the backtracking, the occasional wrong turn—they were meant to confuse anyone who might be following. Even if it had landed them in that goddamn creek.

His boots were still damp.

“A loose one,” he said.

She hummed. Not agreement—never agreement—but something contemplative, like she was already tearing holes in a plan she hadn’t even asked to hear. She didn’t press for details. Her mind wasn’t so frayed that she’d forgotten the rules: the fewer people who knew the destination, the fewer ways there was to bleed it under duress. She understood that. Still, it didn’t stop her from bristling at the lack of control.

She didn’t like him. She didn’t like who he’d chosen to become to crawl out from under the weight of the Soldier. In her eyes, it was a defect—refinement dulled into failure. She hadn’t hidden her contempt for the parts of him that refused to bite.

Maybe she never would.

It didn’t matter.

So why the hell did he ask—

“Do you remember your name?”

The silence that followed hit harder than expected.

He saw it—the way her shoulders went still, how her fingers flexed once and then stilled again, her breath catching on an inhale before smoothing back into rhythm. It was clean. Controlled. Barely noticeable. But he’d been watching. Always watching.

She didn’t answer straight away. That was answer enough.

She’d been thinking about it. Maybe for days. Maybe since the first second of freedom she’d been able to taste. Maybe even longer than that—trapped somewhere between her skin and the suit, a memory trying to claw its way out of the dark.

When she finally looked up, her face was smooth. Wiped blank. Not expressionless, just voided—like she’d scrubbed it on purpose.

“Do you?” she asked.

His lips twitched. Not a smile. Just something that might have once been.

He hadn’t expected her to flip the question back on him. He’d thought she wouldn’t care. She’d been content to call him Soldat, to weaponize the title when she needed to. But maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe there was a sliver of curiosity under all that defiance and efficiency.

Or maybe it wasn’t a tactic at all.

Maybe she really was asking.

It had been the first thing he’d clung to. His name.

On the bridge, his opponent—Steve—had uttered it like an incantation, a word that carved through years of buried code and wiped memory. Bucky. Two syllables, but they struck deeper than any bullet. He’d said it again on the helicarrier, bleeding and resolute. Told him he was with him. To the end of the line. When there was been nothing else but noise in his skull—HYDRA and orders and blood—he’d remembered that name. Remembered him.

He still carried the notebook. It lived in the front pocket of his pack, tucked inside a spare shirt to protect it from the elements. And her. The pages were creased and stained, corners curling, ink beginning to fade, but the words still stared up at him every time he turned to them.

James Buchanan Barnes.

That had been his name. Once. Before.

James.

Bucky.

Winter Soldier.

Soldat.

Asset.

Too many names, all hanging like keys from a ring that no longer opened anything. He wasn’t James. Not anymore. He’d made peace with that—quietly, privately. James had died in a war and hadn’t come back. But Bucky… Bucky had survived. Somehow.

He was still the Winter Soldier, in function if not in name. Still dangerous. Still shaped by what had been done to him. But she was wrong when she called his mercy a flaw. What she viewed as weakness, he’d come to see as evolution. Humanity. Something unfamiliar, yes, but something worth holding on to, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how inconvenient it was.

He wouldn’t be James again. But he didn’t have to be the Soldier either. That part was dead. Buried. Gone.

“Bucky,” he said aloud, as much for her as for himself. The name felt strange in his mouth—soft-edged, human—but it didn’t feel wrong. It felt like a name he might live up to, if given the chance.

She mouthed it, testing the shape of it without voice. Her eyes flicked, searching—through memory or instinct, he couldn’t tell. Her lips moved again, slower this time, as if trying on different syllables. Then she stopped, confusion tightening the corners of her mouth. She looked up at him, something aught behind her eyes.

“What is it?” he asked, quiet. Like speaking any louder would shatter this moment of relative peace.

Worthy of treating with gentleness not often born to him.

Her voice was thin. Strained. “He called me Wraith.”

The word sat in the air for a moment. Uneasy. Unmoored.

“But it doesn’t sound right,” she added, her throat clicking over the phrase like it tasted wrong.

“Who did?”

Her gaze drifted past him—distant and sharp all at once. Her voice changed. Fainter. Colder.

“This is the Wraith?”

Then she blinked. Her focus returned.

“I killed him,” she said.

There was no guilt in it. No shame. Just a fact she seemed pleased to report.

“Wraith isn’t your name,” Bucky said quietly, reading what was left unsaid in the space between her sentences.

She shook her head. “No, it’s not.”

He hesitated. This was delicate terrain. She wasn’t fragile, but her memory was. Whatever she’d reclaimed from the darkness, it had surfaced like glass beneath water—still, but liable to shatter with the wrong touch.

“You could choose your own,” he offered.

She considered this, her expression tightening again—brows drawn, lips faintly parted. The idea wasn’t dismissed out of hand. That alone was something.

“Is that what you did?”

“In a way,” he said, nodding once.

He still had the name because of Steve. Because of who he’d been to him. Because of who they’d been to each other before the world split in two.

If he hadn’t been there—if he hadn’t fought for him, hadn’t looked at the thing HYDRA had made and still seen Bucky Barnes—maybe he would’ve let it go. Maybe it would’ve been easier.

He drew a breath, slow and careful. “It could’ve been lost. If it weren’t for… someone. Steve.”

The name felt heavy in his mouth. Familiar but distant. Like a memory weathered by time, still intact but worn at the edges. He wasn’t sure if he’d uttered the name out loud since—well, before.

“He never let me forget,” Bucky said. “Even when I didn’t remember him.” He swallowed. “Even when I didn’t remember me.”

Across from him, her fingers curled, knuckles flexing beneath the worn fabric of her sleeves. She didn’t speak, but her expression shifted. The fire in her eyes flickered—not extinguished, just… thinned. Muted. Not anger this time, but something quieter. Something she hadn’t decided whether to show him or not.

She understood. She didn’t need him to spell it out. She knew what it meant to have someone else define you. To be named by captors. To be assigned a function, not a life. A purpose, not a self.

Her gaze dropped away. “And if he hadn’t?”

He hesitated. The answer wasn’t easy. Had never been. It was the question that sat in the marrow of his bones, the one he still hadn’t figured out how to live with.

He looked at her—at the way she sat with her shoulders high and stiff, every line of her body held like she was expecting a command, still wired to act on that alone.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I wonder if it would’ve been easier to be no one at all.”

He let the words settle. They didn’t echo. They didn’t need to.

“To have a choice,” he added, quieter. “To start over. Be someone new.”

Something passed between them then. Not comfort—neither of them knew what that looked like anymore—but recognition. A mirror held up, grim and cold. She watched him with that unreadable look she wore when the world stopped making sense, when the lines she thought were certain began to blur.

Then her eyes fell to her hands. Her voice, when it came, was smaller than he’d ever heard it. “So I get to pick?”

The question hung there, not naïve but honest. It was strange, maybe, to hear her so uncertain. She’d never asked permission before—not for violence, not for the way she chose to survive. But this was different. This was identity. Autonomy. And for the first time, she was asking if it could belong to her.

Nothing of consequence. Nothing useful. Nothing that aided her mission.

Just a name. Just permission to want a name.

He nodded once. “If you want.”

She didn’t answer. Just let the quiet fall again, her eyes on the earth. And he didn’t push.

A sharp gust threaded through the trees, rustling the canopy like a whisper meant to be ignored. The cold had deepened now that the sun was gone, burying itself into the spaces between his joints, stiffening the muscle already frayed by the fatigue he’d surrendered to. He felt the ache—not pain exactly, but that heavy, dragging strain that reminded him even they weren’t built to go forever.

He pulled his bag closer, one arm crooked through the strap, and let himself lower onto the dirt. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was familiar. He’d slept on worse. He’d survived worse.

A few feet away, she hesitated. Then, finally, mirrored the motion—slower, deliberate. No trust in the movement, no ease. Just careful consideration. She lay on her side, the distance between them taut with everything unsaid, everything still raw.

Above them, the stars blinked faint through branches, a scatter of light dulled by atmosphere. He watched them without seeing. His ears tracked her instead—the shift of her jacket, the adjustment of her weight, the sound of her breath dragging in low and measured like she didn’t want to give anything away.

Still watching. Still listening. Still waiting.

Her voice, when it came, was barely audible. Not soft in a vulnerable way, but low—grounded. Like she didn’t have the energy to raise it any higher.

“You don’t trust me.”

He turned just enough to glimpse the outline of her face. Pale in the darkness, eyes wide and watchful. Waiting for his answer like it mattered. Like she didn’t already know.

“You don’t trust me either,” he murmured.

A beat passed.

“No,” she said.

Not defensive. Not bitter. Just a truth laid bare between them. Agreed upon.

The silence that followed wasn’t suffocating this time. Just… still. Heavy with the truth of it, but not weaponised. It hovered in the air like their breath—present, but not choking them. Neither of them would sleep, not truly. But the edges of vigilance were softening. He could feel it in his own libs, dull and sinking. He saw it in her too—in the way her blinks lengthened, in the subtle slack of her posture, the way her shoulders no longer pressed quite so high against her ears.

It was a contest, he realised. Not for dominance. Not really. Just one of endurance. A silent standoff to see who would give in first.

He let it play out. Said nothing. Breathed slow and even, let the dark settle around them like a curtain pulled half-shut. Her breath grew quieter. Her body stilled.

Then—finally—she went still.

She lost.

And somehow, that small loss felt like something else entirely. Not surrender. But maybe—maybe—relief. Maybe just enough of a step forward to count.

He let his own breath out, slow.

And for the first time since they started running, he let his eyes close. Not all the way. But enough.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SEVEN

She dreamed in pieces. Jagged things. Time without chronology. Faces half-familiar. Voices she couldn’t name. Mouths moved but made no sound—only the sensation of being spoken to. Scenes bled together, dark on darker, as though whatever light there might have been had long since drowned.

Evolved.

Liefie.

Run.

A hand reaching toward her.

A child’s cry muffled by static.

Fear is the price of knowing.

Regret is the debt of survival.

You will be so much more...

Moy dorogoy.

A flash of red light.

A scream—

Hers?

His?

There was nothing like certainty—

She shot upright.

The forest spun. Her heart stuttered in her chest, galloping wildly. The sweat soaked through her shirt felt colder than it should have. For a moment, the trees doubled. Shadows where there should have been none. The taste of blood in her mouth. A sharp, metallic tang like she’d bitten down too hard on something soft.

Her breath snagged. She dragged a shaky hand across her face. Wet. Cold. She blinked hard, trying to force the waking world to settle, to make it stay. Her metal-coated palms skated through the tangle of her hair, shoved it back. Breathing was the next task. In through the nose. Out slow. She knew that trick. She just didn’t remember when she’d learned it.

Across from her, the Soldier lay on his back. Still. Motionless in that way only someone trained to be a corpse could manage. His eyes were open. Watching.

She froze in the act of brushing dirt from her arms. Held his gaze for as long as her skin would allow it. His stare wasn’t intrusive—it wasn’t even curious. It just was. He’d seen her flinch. He’d seen her crack.

She got to her feet.

The movement came too fast. Her body overcorrected. Blood rushed. She clenched her fists, then flexed them, as if readying for a fight that hadn’t come yet. Muscles primed for action without instruction. Energy she didn’t have thrumming under the surface. Her pulse refused to settle. She felt it in her throat, her wrists, the tips of her fingers. Everything inside her was coiled and stuttering.

She didn’t understand why.

She just knew she couldn’t stay still.

Pacing helped, but it wasn’t enough.

Her fist struck the nearest tree with the force of a breaking wave. Bark split under the blow, scattering splinters like shrapnel. The crack of wood rang sharp across the clearing, followed by a deeper groan as the trunk bucked. When it fell, it did so hard—earth trembled, birds scattered. The impact was deafening, clean, final.

He didn’t move.

Not at the sound. Not at the strike. He stayed exactly as he had been—on his back, one arm bent behind his head, eyes trained on her without urgency. No fear. No surprise. Just a steady watchfulness, like he’d seen it all before and hadn’t yet decided whether to care.

Her breath scraped in and out of her lungs, shoulders jerking with each inhale. Sweat cooled quickly across her face and lingered under her suit. The ache blooming in her knuckles was sharp, but familiar. Welcome.

Wounds she could touch. Pick at. Make worse or allow to heal.

The dreams had gone. Or at least, she could no longer see them. Their shape lingered behind her eyes—shadowy, disjointed—but the specifics had melted away. No names. No images. Only the weight. Fear. Anguish. Pain. Discomfort. Loathing.

Whatever they’d been, she was glad to be rid of them.

Maybe there was merit in becoming something new, if the alternative meant dragging up whatever lived in the dark. Maybe forgetting was cleaner.

She looked back at the Soldier.

Bucky.

He hadn’t turned away. There was no tension in his jaw, no pity in his expression. Just the kind of stillness that came from experience. He recognised this part of her—what she’d just done—and said nothing.

It didn’t make her feel seen. It made her feel behind. Like he’d lived through this already and was content to watch as it happened to someone else. Like she was still drowning in something he had already learned how to survive.

Her jaw tightened.

She crossed the distance, reached down, and yanked the bag out from under his head without warning. Slung it over her shoulder.

“Get up,” she muttered. “We have to keep moving.”

Still, he didn’t speak. Just rose, silent as ever, and followed.

*

The Winter Soldier hadn’t spoken in hours.

She wasn’t sure when the silence started bothering her. It had crept in slowly—like damp. Clinging and heavy.

She hated it. Hated him for it.

The same quiet that had once given her space to think now pressed in like a vice. She knew this would happen. From the moment she allowed him the smallest crack in her armour that someone would rot from the inside out. His weakness was contagious. A sickness. A slow, festering contagion that softened everything it touched.

Her first real sleep had brought dreams she didn’t remember but still woke from shaking. Her first proper meal had turned her stomach. Her first conversation had left her unsettled in ways she couldn’t quite name.

She didn’t need a name.

What use was there in it? A name was nothing. Decoration. A leash with letters. She was a weapon—no, less than that. A rumour. An echo. The thing whispered about when the lights went out.

She’d thought that truth unshakeable.

Until rage started folding in on itself.

Now there was something else in her chest. Not grief, not yet. But something too warm to be empty. Something fractured and trembling.

She remembered his face—the man who’d called her Wraith.

His accent had been thick. Germanic. His expression one of contempt. Not fear. Not awe. Just disappointment. As if she’d failed before she’d ever drawn breath. That sneer had carved itself into her memory, as permanent as her own bones.

She didn’t know if he’d been HYDRA. Didn’t know if he’d come before or after. But he remained.

She’d tried to bury him. Dragged him back into the fog that swallowed everything else. But he wouldn’t go.

Zis is ze Wraith? Zis is ze Wraith? Zis is ze Wraith?

Over and over. Again and again. His voice, his disgust, threading through her mind like wire.

It was the only name she had.

And she loathed it.

Worse than loathing—it burned.

Who had he been to her, that even now he lived in her skull? Who dared take root in her when he had nothing else left?

Who gave him that right?

Her boot crashed through the undergrowth without rhythm or care, snapping branches and kicking up loose soil like a trail of breadcrumbs for anyone halfway competent to follow. She didn’t slow down. Didn’t bother pretending. The noise suited her mood.

Unfortunately, it also spoke volumes to the man trailing a few paces behind.

“If you keep this pace up, we’re gong to overshoot our heading,” he called, voice maddeningly even.

He wasn’t struggling to keep up. Not anymore. His injuries had healed enough that his stride matches hers, but he made a point of dragging his feet now—deliberate, subtle resistance designed to slow her without confrontation.

Her jaw ticked.

“I wouldn’t know,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

He sighed. “We need to find work.”

“Or steal.”

“Work pays better.”

“Stealing’s easier.”

The hand landed on her shoulder before she could brush past another low branch. Firm. Unyielding. He pulled her back a step and turned her toward him.

She rolled her eyes, more out of reflex than defiance, but it was still a sign a progress—he could consider it a win that he didn’t go straight for his arm and rip it out at the socket.

His expression was flat. Annoyed, maybe. But not aggressive. “Petty theft is one thing,” he said, tone verging on lecture, “but food and water? That gets noticed. It’s rare. Archaic. If it gets reported, it’ll make noise. We don't need noise.”

Her brow twitched. She didn’t appreciate the way he spoke—slow, like she was a weapon still learning to hold a blade the right way—but she hadn’t exactly been subtle about her regression. She wasn’t sure what had cracked her open like this, only that it was compromising her function. And she hated that more than anything.

She tried to remember the deal. That first, ugly truce. She’d agreed to follow him. To defer to his lead, if not his judgement. He’d survived on the run longer than she had, and she’d chosen that expertise for a reason.

And now, because logic demanded it, she chose it again.

No matter how much she didn’t want to.

She stepped back. Nodded once.

It wasn’t surrender. It was recalibration—an independent conclusion reached after careful evaluation of updated data. Nothing more.

Let him think what he liked.

“So,” she said, still chewing on the word as though it tasted of defeat, “where do we go?”

The Winter Soldier pulled a folded map from his back pocket, the creases worn soft with use. He crouched beside a fallen log, flattening it against the bark. His glove moved with deliberate care, tracing a lateral line a little east of their current position.

“This one’s likely a farming village,” he said, eyes scanning the page. “Seasonal work. This time of year draws city traffic—migrants, job-seekers. If they’re desperate enough, they’ll take anyone willing to lift something heavier than a shovel.”

She crouched beside him, studying the terrain. The markings were sparse. No buildings labelled. Just roads and the skeletal grid of land division. Still, it was clear he’d avoided nearly every significant township.

She tilted her head. “How do you know that?”

He didn’t look up. “I paid attention,” he said simply, folding the map and sliding it back into his pocket. “Did research. Makes it easier not to get blindsided when something unexpected comes out of a side alley.”

The answer was neutral, but she caught the undertone—a quiet rebuke. She almost smirked at it.

She didn’t. But she thought about it.

“Knowledge best shared considering there’s every chance it’ll happen again,” she muttered under her breath.

He ignored that.

“It’s the databases you have to consider,” he said instead, starting to walk again. She followed, shoulder to shoulder now, neither of them acknowledging it. “Back in the seventies, this would’ve been easy. No paper trail. No digital signature. You could vanish in a city and never be found.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said.

His eyes shifted toward her, perceptive as always. She could feel the next question brewing, so she beat him to it.

“When the memories come back,” she said, staring ahead, “they’re not in order. They just… show up. Flash. I remember things, but not where they go. I see people, places, hear words—but I don’t see where they belong on the timeline.”

His lack of reaction told her he knew exactly what that felt like. It confirmed what she had already suspected: this was normal for a soldat breaking their conditioning. Whatever passed for normal when it pertained to things like them.

“My time is short. Shorter than my lifespan,” she said. “If I had to guess from my appearance, take into account the serum, I should have thirty years of memories—at least. Even if they’re out of order.”

He nodded, but his brow furrowed.

“I don’t have that,” she added. “Not even close.”

He was quiet for a beat, stepping over a fallen log, then extended his hand back toward her.

She ignored it. Walked on.

“What’s the earliest you remember?” he asked.

“The mirror,” she said. “Cracked in one corner. And filthy. I was staring at myself—hair buzzed to the scalp. I didn’t know if it was me at fist. Just a face.” She shrugged. “But my hair grew. Time passed. I kept seeing her. Started to recognise her.”

She didn’t stop walking. He didn’t stop listening.

She could feel him processing, cataloguing, running some quiet comparison in that mind of his. Maybe trying to map her memory against his own. Maybe looking for answers about himself in someone else’s reckoning. She was doing the same.

The instinct to guard it—to lock the memory away—was faint but present. A whisper, nothing more. There were fragments in her head that felt… delicate. Not scared. Just fragile in a way she didn’t understand.

But she’d noticed, particularly lately, that the instincts that surface weren’t always the soldat. They were too inefficient. Not kind, but more illogical and situational. Whether it was her own personal Bucky—otherwise known as a parasite that would be her undoing—was something she wasn’t ready to consider.

He didn’t speak again for a while.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he asked, “What about the suit?”

She ran her tongue over her teeth, slow and deliberate. Something in her resisted the question. Not because it was dangerous—everything was dangerous—but because it felt… close. Closer than she liked.

The suit—no, the thing she wore—had resisted her too. Every attempt to coax or force it into compliance had ended the same way. It sealed tighter. Recoiled. Refused. Even now, it clung to her skin like a second epidermis, trapping heat, sweat, decay. She could smell herself beneath it, sour and sharp. Rot blooming in the folds. And still, it didn’t open.

It didn’t trust her.

And she didn’t trust him.

Her gaze flicked to his arm—the left, wrapped in a glove worn near to threadbare. The light caught on the thin spots, revealing glints of polished metal beneath. She remembered the force of it. The power behind it. How it had restrained her. Broken her grip. Ended a fight before it truly began.

That arm frightened her, if only because it had proved stronger than the thing—she assumed—had been designed to keep her alive.

The other hand—the flesh one—was bare. She remembered it differently. Not for its strength, but for its care. The way it had searched and sought for a seam, with impossible gentleness, to remove the panels. It had failed; he’d only managed to get the mask to retract, but the suit hadn’t resisted him the way it had her.

It was not a touch she was capable of emulating.

She wasn’t gentle.

She didn’t know how or why he was.

“It’s not a suit,” she said, before the instinct to stay silent could catch up. “It’s an exoskeleton. I think that’s why my head was shaved. So that they could install it.”

She kept her eyes forward. No glance toward him. No invitation for sympathy.

“It doesn’t listen to me.”

There was a pause. Then, without looking at her, he flexed the fingers of his left hand. The faint hum of servos filled the quiet.

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” he murmured.

She let his words hang.

Not because she didn’t have a response, but because she couldn’t decide if she agreed with him. The idea that her own body might be right to resist her—that the armour sealed to her skin was smarter than she was—was not comforting. It was humiliating. The only thing she had left was control, and even that was conditional.

Still, she hadn’t corrected him.

They walked in silence after that. No further questions. No stray observations. Just the sound of boots against damp soil, the occasional brush of a branch, and the weight of everything unsaid.

Whatever this was between them—this strange, strained truce—it wasn’t built on trust. It was built on proximity. On necessity. On the fact that they understood one another just enough to stay close, and not a single step further.

*

The village was even smaller than it had appeared on the map. One main road, two branching lanes, and fields that rolled on until they vanished into the haze. Crops in varying stages of life and decay. A handful of machines sat rusting along the edges—some new enough to function, most not.

It wasn’t a transient place. There was no way to disappear into it. If something went missing here, someone would notice. If someone didn’t belong, they were seen.

He’d been right. Stealing here would have raised more flags than it was worth.

They had done what they could to make themselves presentable. She’d tied her hair back with a strip torn from the hem of his jeans. He’d done the same. Their clothes were still worn, their boots caked in dried earth, but they looked the part. Not dangerous. Just desperate.

The village square held a single weather-worn corkboard, pockmarked from years of use. Most of the notices were formal—printed flyers, official stamps. Bucky ignored those. His eyes moved quickly over the hand-written notes, the ink faded and curling at the corners. He pulled one down, folded it neatly, and slid it into his jacket pocket.

The locals, who had been watching them from the moment they stepped into view, shifted. A few returned to their conversations. One man turned back to his shop window. Her presence was still noted, still measured, but no longer marked as a threat.

They had been catalogued and classified and were no longer interesting.

She scanned the skyline—habit, not instinct. No visible satellites. No drones. The sky was open and grey. Still, her muscles didn’t ease.

The job was posted at a farm on the village’s outer edge. Smaller than the rest. The fields were partially tilled but unworked. The barn slouched under its own weight, the paint on the slats peeling in strips. An old ruck with one wheel missing sat abandoned beneath a corrugated awning. This wasn’t a place flush with resources. Not the kind that could usually afford help.

Which meant they might be desperate enough to offer it anyway.

She didn’t ask why he’d chosen this one. Not yet.

But if it worked—maybe she would.

He knocked with his right hand, knuckles sharp against the sun-bleached door. Then he stepped back, subtle, and nudged her shoulder with his own. She shifted accordingly, drawing from observation, memory, mimicry. Shoulders angled inward, posture softer, eyes down. The picture of civilian deference.

The man who answered looked exactly as she’d expected. Weathered face, sun-toughened hands, voice like gravel in a tin cup. They spoke in Romanian—low, efficient. She caught none of it. Occasionally, the farmer’s gaze drifted to her, appraising. Bucky shook his head once, then reached out and gave her bicep a firm squeeze.

“E mai puternică decât pare,” he said with a grin wide enough to draw laugh lines.

She stared at him, unamused.

It wasn’t the touch that bothered her—though it rankled, slightly—it was the absurd performance. His grin looked so natural, so easy, that it took her half a second to remember it wasn’t real. His tone had been warm, even conspiratorial. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought they were old friends.

Or that the Soldier was personable.

But as soon as the door closed behind them and the farmer turned away, the expression dropped. His face reset. Neutral. Cold. Familiar.

The dissonance left her unsettled.

They crossed the edge of the field in silence, boots crunching through the topsoil. Her mind itched with questions. Where had he learned that? Was it instinct? Memory? Had he practiced that smile in some forgotten bathroom mirror—face after face until one looked real enough to pass?

He noticed her distraction, of course. He always did. But he said nothing about it.

“He wants us to wrap the bales and move them to the barn. For silage,” he said, jerking his chin toward the far end of the field.

She followed the motion—blocks of damp hay scattered like lazy sentries. Work. Physical and straightforward.

She gave a small shake of her head to clear it. He could keep his tricks. She’d perfect her own once he slept.

Her gaze slid back toward the house. From here, only the slope of the roof was visible over the crest of the hill. The rest hidden.

Good.

The jacket came off easily. She shrugged it from her shoulders in one fluid motion and slung it over the nearest fencepost, sparing it from the churn of dust and damp. Bucky gave her a look, but she only gestured at the horizon—bare fields, distant treelines, not even a bird willing to acknowledge them.

“We don’t have all day.”

His jaw tightened, but he eventually followed suit, rolling his shoulders to loosen the fabric before peeling off his own jacket. Beneath it, a thin t-shirt clung to his frame, already darkening with sweat. The metal arm caught in the sun—bright, sharp, too reflective to ignore. A sniper’s dream. She wondered if that was why he usually kept it hidden. Or whether it had nothing to do with discretion and everything to do with shame.

She didn’t know. She didn’t much care.

At least hers didn’t gleam.

Freed from the weight of heavy leather, she moved. Swift and efficient. The bales were dense but manageable, especially without the constant drag of sleeves slipping over her wrists. She hefted the first one with both hands, spine locking under the weight, and carried it to the machine.

Bucky had it running by the time she returned, engine coughing to life as he loaded the initial bundle. He didn’t speak. Neither did she. The rhythm was self-evident: lift, move, repeat. Again and again. It didn’t require instruction, or strategy, just muscle and breath.

And for once, she was grateful for the simplicity.

There was something about it—this task, this exertion—that carved a space in her head wide enough to think clearly. The ache in her arms, the pull in her shoulders—it grounded her. Kept her present. Her body had been tense for days, coiled too tightly for too long. Every twitch had been a thread waiting to land. Now it was movement for its own sake. Honest labour, no blood in sight.

She moved faster. Pushed harder.

The heat crept through her steadily. The inside of the exoskeleton prickled with sweat, slick and suffocating, but she welcomed it. It meant she was working. It meant she was capable.

Since Bucharest—since the fight—she’d felt… less. Diminished. A blade dulled by too many failed strikes. But this—this was a reminder. Every lifted bale, every swing of her arms, every groan of strained metal—proof that she was still a weapon. Still formidable. Still dangerous.

She caught sight of the Soldier in her periphery.

He was soaked through. His shirt clung to him, streaked with dirt and effort, his brow furrowed in silent focus. He lifted with both arms—sometimes two, three bales at once. Moved the machine when it needed to shift, not by dragging the engine but by setting his boots and forcing it sideways with raw strengths. No hesitation. No wasted motion.

He was pushing himself. Harder than necessary.

She didn’t comment. But her next load was heavier than the last.

Two parallel lines in the same dirt.

*

By the time they paused, the sun had dropped low enough to sting their eyes. Her hair stuck to her forehead, the heat inside the exoskeleton unbearable. It breathed more than metal should, but not nearly enough for comfort. Her fingers, sealed under the suit’s synthetic weave, felt waterlogged. Wrinkled. Like they’d been submerged for hours.

They hadn’t finished. Not all of it. But they’d done enough for today, and she was glad. Not because she was tired—though she was—but because the ache crawling through her limbs wasn’t from combat. It wasn’t from bruises or blunt trauma or blades. It was labour. It was effort.

And for some reason, that distinction mattered.

She slowed at the edge of the field, her hand resting briefly on the fence as she retrieved her jacket. There was a strange pause in her movement—just a flicker—before she slid her arms back into the sleeves.

Had she truly just thought that?

That it felt good to hurt like this?

The idea unnerved her. She scowled faintly, unsure what unsettled her more: the thought itself or the quiet it left behind.

“You see something?” Bucky’s voice called from across the field, sharp but not alarmed.

She shook her head. “No.”

He didn’t relax.

She joined him a moment later, jacket loose over her shoulders. His jaw was tense, a flicker of muscle tight in his check, but he didn’t press. He rarely did anymore.

“All clear,” she said. “I just… remembered something.”

He studied her. “Something important?”

“No.” She didn’t blink.

He looked past her, scanning the perimeter, then the bales still scattered across the far stretch of field. The light was dimming. Shadows had started to stretch long between rows. They weren’t done—not quite—but pushing to finish would’ve drawn attention. This much had been deliberate. Enough progress to pass as drifters. Not enough to make anyone look twice.

“We’ll finish the rest tomorrow,” he said. “Won’t look rushed.”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t push back.

He let it sit a moment longer, then added, “Farmer can’t offer much. Said we can stay. Bed and board until it’s done.”

That earned her gaze. A flicker of surprise, maybe. Or just calculation.

“It’s normal,” he said. “Keeps people working.”

She weighed it. A roof. A bed. Food that wasn’t stolen or scavenged. Not exactly her currency, but necessary for the next move. The next crossing.

“Fine.” She turned before he could try to read anything more.

They crossed the field without a word. Their boots sank into the earth, slow and even. Somewhere beneath the ache and the weight and the silence, something shifted in her gait.

Whether she recognised it or not.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER EIGHT

She didn’t remember walking into the house.

One moment they’d been outside—sweat drying tacky along her spine, dirt stitched into the creases of her palms—and the next, she was seated at the old man’s kitchen table. The chair was wooden, narrow-backed, too small for the breadth of her shoulders. Her feet were planted flat, her spine too straight. Across the room, something simmered on the stove, steeped in garlic, pepper, and the faint scorch of burnt fat.

A bowl sat in front of her, its surface lacquered with oil and steam. Chunks of root vegetable floated inside, pale and starchy, dyed orange by the broth. Between her and the Soldier, on a plate with a cracked rim, lay half a loaf of bread—dense, split unevenly, its crust tough from age.

She didn’t reach for it.

He did.

Bucky tore off a piece without ceremony and dipped it into the stew, nodding faintly to the farmer across the table. The gesture was easy, habitual—too easy. It took her several seconds to understand that this, too, was performance. Farmhand. Drifter. Friendly but reserved. He had stepped into the part like an old coat. Worn, familiar. Believable.

She was meant to do the same.

She didn’t.

He caught the falter in her expression—barely a shift, a tightening between her brows, the faintest pull at the corner of her mouth. His eyes met hers. No hostility. Just a signal.

Adapt.

Apparently, she was already failing at a task no one had asked her to accept.

“Iartă-o, e obosită,” Bucky said smoothly.

Her eyes narrowed. He was apologising for her. She could feel it in the tone, the way he didn’t look at her when he said it.

The farmer grunted in response, eyes lingering a second too long before he turned back to his bowl.

“Ah, nu este nicio problemă. Munca pe teren este o muncă grea,” he muttered, waving a hand as if swatting at a fly.

He slurped a spoonful of stew, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaned back in his chair with the ease of someone who didn’t notice tension in others. Or was too polite to say anything about it.

“Te-ai descurcat bine. E greu să găsești muncitori ca tine atât de departe de oraș. Te rog, gândește-te la asta ca la casa ta până când pleci.”

His tone was warm. Too warm.

“Sunteți foarte amabil,” Bucky replied with a smile.

She blinked, irritated.

She had no skills to apply here. No way to aid their current mission.

The kitchen buzzed faintly with failing light. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and stew, wood polish and heat. A faded calendar curled on the wall beside the window. A crucifix hung above the door, crooked.

There were no threats here. No weapons. No angles to control or bodies to map. Just an old man, a bowl of broth, and still another day ahead of her of pretending to belong.

And yet she sat stiff, still wired for the next strike—like this entire room was a trap she hadn’t yet deciphered.

The farce grated.

Not because it was convincing, but because it was working.

And she didn’t understand how the Soldier was doing it.

“What’s he saying?” she muttered, voice low. Too flat for the space, but she didn’t care. The quiet, the civility—it was like sand in the joints of something that wasn’t built for it. “I want the real translation.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. The smile slipped from his face in pieces, set down like something that had started to chafe. His jaw shifted. He glanced at the farmer, then back to her, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet, but not for her. Still performing. Still polite.

“He said we did a good job. And to think of this as home while we’re here.”

She frowned. “Why would he say that?”

“Probably because we look like people who need it.”

It made her skin itch. She couldn’t decide what bothered her more—the suggestion or the possibility he was right. Her body hurt in unfamiliar ways. The suit clung in odd places. Her scalp itched. Her hands ached. She didn’t know if the tightness in her limbs was tension or fatigue. Maybe both.

None of it felt real. The light. The kitchen. The way he smiled like he could mean it.

He tore another piece of bread and placed it near her plate without looking.

She took it. Eventually.

“Now smile at him,” he said, still soft, still smooth. “And say thank you before you offend him.”

She stiffened. This part hadn’t been rehearsed.

The civilian mask she’d half-adopted back in Bucharest—the softness expected of women, the edges dulled enough to pass as harmless—was fraying. She had no protocol to fall back on. No training for this.

Because this wasn’t a mission.

This was life.

Pedestrian, uncomplicated life.

She could gut a man with a toothpick, but could she smile at a half-blind farmer without drawing blood?

Her eyes shifted between them. Bucky, composed but watching. The farmer, patient but perceptive. The coat draped over her suit felt suddenly restrictive—too warm across her back, too tight at the seams. A slow prickle climbed her spine. The old man’s expression wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t neutral either. Suspicion flickered just under the surface, tempered by something quieter.

Not fear. That, she could read blindfolded. She’d seen it in every opponent she’d ever faced—including the Winter Soldier.

No. This was something worse.

It was kindness.

And that—genuine, unbartered, inexplicable—unnerved her more than any weapon.

At least with the Soldier, she knew the rules. His civility was a shield. His care, an argument he kept losing. But the man across the table had no reason to pretend. He offered warmth like he believed she needed it. Like she might even deserve it.

She pulled the corners of her mouth up slowly, tucking them toward her cheeks. It felt unnatural. The muscles twitched like they’d never been used for this before—or hadn’t in a very long time. Holding the expression was effort. Her brows pinched without meaning to.

“Thank you,” she said, careful and slow.

The old man blinked. His expression didn’t soften—it tightened. His brow creased with the kind of discomfort she couldn’t quite decode. Red crept up into his cheeks as he glanced toward Bucky with visible unease.

“Da. Trebuie să fie obosită,” he muttered.

Bucky coughed—loud and sharp enough that her head whipped around. But he wasn’t choking. He was smiling, barely concealing the twitch of his mouth behind his hand as his shoulders shook with short, strained bursts of sound.

He was laughing.

Her frown deepened. She sat back slightly, reassessing. Replaying the sequence in her mind, as if it were a mission gone sideways. The old man was now avoiding eye contact altogether. Something in his body had shifted—regret, maybe. She’d done something wrong, but she couldn’t see where the fault lay.

The tension in her stomach coalesced into something heavy and unfamiliar. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t dread. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even pain, but it… hurt. She focused on the weight of it, turning it over like a foreign object, trying to locate its name. Its use. Its weakness.

A light tap on her shoulder pulled her from the spiral.

Bucky’s flesh hand. A soft, careful pat—like he wasn’t sure if comfort would be welcome, but offered it anyway.

She turned toward him.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly, nodding toward her untouched plate. “Eat your food.”

She looked down.

It took a second. Maybe two.

Shame.

That was the word.

What she had just felt was shame.

*

She was exhausted. Not just in the way of aching muscles or dulled reflexes, but in that deeper, more insidious sense—the kind that crept into the marrow, clotted in the joints, turned every thought into a burden.

And still, the suit wouldn’t fucking move.

The moment the bathroom door latched shut, when there was no-one to see her fail, she’d attacked it. Not with strategy or logic—those had failed her in previous attempts—but with brute force and desperation.

And gotten nowhere.

Her back to the door, she’d dragged in breath after breath, tried to still her shaking hands. But the second her fingers found the collar, it began again. The same vicious loop.

Pull. Pry. Tear. Dig.

Her nails scraped at the seam between metal and skin, a seam that no longer felt like one. The edge around her throat resisted her with the same unthinking, instinctive force it used to protect her from blades and bullets.

She was no threat to it. And it knew that. So why wouldn’t it yield?

Her throat was raw. Strips of skin burned under the synthetic weave where it clung tightest—neck, wrists, spine. She’d tried to slip her fingers under the collar, twist it, break it. But the metal flexed and sealed tighter with every attempt. She’d clawed until her vision blurred, until sweat stung her eyes, until the mirror above the sink showed her a soldier panting like an animal, eyes wild and rimmed with red.

And it hadn’t so much as flinched.

She sagged against the wall, letting her shoulders sink into the tile. Her pulse hammered in her ears. Her breath too short. A quiet snarl twisted behind her teeth as she tilted her head back and let it thump against the plaster. The dull sound brought no relief—only a fresh flush of shame. There had been no purpose to it. Just another crude outlet, another crack in the persona.

A tantrum, for lack of a better word.

A flare of human frustration.

She hated it.

Hated how mentally weak she was becoming.

Everything grated. The squeak of her boots, the stiffness of her hair, the constant observation she was under, the unyielding weight of expectation. Everything complied until she felt like she might lose control entirely. Scream. Cry. She had already destroyed a tree and it had done nothing.

She just wanted the fucking suit off.

She drew a sharp breath through her nose, forcing her focus to narrow. She was not weak. She would not be bested by a machine designed to obey her. The armour was hers. It lived in her blood, her bones, her mind.

She would not be conquered by it.

Her glare found the mirror again. Found her own eyes—shadowed, bloodshot, rimmed with something brittle and tight.

She squared her stance and stepped forward, as close to the glass as she could get without shattering the sink. Her hands were steady. Grip precise. She found the edge beneath her jaw and pressed her thumbs against it, hard.

It gave, just slightly. A fraction of give. Enough to bite down.

Her cheeks puffed with effort as she braced and pulled.

The collar resisted, then twitched—too fast.

With a hiss of compression, she lost purchase and the mask snapped up over her mouth and nose, locking into place with mechanical smugness.

She stopped moving.

Steam fogged the glass as her nostril flared behind the plate, the mirror reflected a full exosuit and a jaw set so tight it could’ve cracked.

Her eye twitched.

That's. It.

She growled—low and animal—as she tore the bathroom door open hard enough to jolt the frame. Behind her, the bulb above the sink flickered once and went dark.

The Soldier looked up from where he sat on the edge of the bed. One knee raised, a towel slung over his shoulder. His hair hung wet around his face, loose and dark, still clinging to his jaw.

His eyes tracked her. Or more precisely, the armour. Now fully visible without any fabric layers over the top—glinting darkly under the low light. No seams. No zippers. No joints. No weaknesses. Confirmed.

“That doesn’t look right,” he said, towel still in hand.

She threw up her arms. “It won’t come off.”

He blinked once. Then set the towel aside and ran a hand through his hair. “You said it’s an exoskeleton. Are you sure it can come off?”

The question stopped her cold. Her arms dropped, heavy at her sides.

No. She wasn’t sure.

The assumption had been automatic. Of course it would come off—everything did, eventually. But as she searched the logic, combed through the facts like data, a different answer took shape.

The mask retracted. That much was proven.

But nothing else had.

Not the gloves. Not the boots. Not the core that locked around her from sternum to spine. Pressure hadn’t worked. Will hadn’t worked. Nothing had moved.

And why would it?

Why would HYDRA build an exit into something meant to contain?

What good was her skin to them?

A prickle traced her neck, cold and deliberate, before sinking into her gut. The answer didn’t need to be remembered—it was embedded. Truth, burned into code.

She hadn’t been built to remove it.

She’d been built to survive inside it.

Worse—this hadn’t started with HYDRA. That chair had only formalised the process. The memories were gone, but the shape of them remained. The instinctive compliance. The sensory dead zones. The way she fought the suit not as equipment but as malfunctioning interface.

Her gaze drifted past Bucky, unfocused. Something behind him. Or beyond him.

Anger drained, replaced by something hollower.

She lifted one hand, almost without meaning to. Stared at the metal fingers where flesh should have been. Swore she’d felt them earlier, damp with sweat—pruned at the edges, human. She swore she could feel it now. The ache in them. The soreness.

Her fingers twitched. Curled faintly. Then stilled.

What if she’d imagined it?

It would hardly be the strangest thing to happen to her. Hardly the least explainable. Hardly outside the realm of possibility.

Her jaw locked, tight enough to click.

She needed more information.

“Did—did you know?” The words came out low. Tentative. Almost childlike in their uncertainty. It surprised her. Should have enraged her, but the feeling evaded her—that hollowness becoming more and more consuming.

Bucky blinked. “Know what?”

Her eyes lifted. Steeled. “Did you know about your arm?”

He followed her gaze without resistance, letting it drop to the exposed limb. The metal caught the lamplight in dull, fractured glints, water droplets still clinging to the plating. Where it met the flesh of his chest and shoulder, the skin taut and puckered, surgical in the ugliest way. There was no illusion of naturalism—no attempt to disguise what had been severed and replaced. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t whole.

Had he known, waking up on that table, that it was only an addition? Instinctively, without doubt. Or had he considered something harder to bear—that he might have been human once, but wasn’t anymore?

“Yes,” he said after a beat. His eyes didn’t waver. “I knew.”

Her throat constricted. That knot in her gut pulled tighter. The answer brought no clarity, only a deeper, slower shift beneath the surface. She hadn’t questioned it—until now. But as the seconds passed, what she’d once accepted as fact began to thin around the edges. Was this fear creeping in? Or was this merely her moment of recognition—

The moment she realised what she was.

A shaky breath left her.

“I need—” she said, and the word lodged in her throat like it didn’t belong. It felt foreign. Soft. Need implied absence, vulnerability, humanity. Things she had long since learned to go without.

But she didn’t try again.

Instead, she met his gaze and held it. Rigid in her stance, jaw locked, shoulders pulled tight in defiance of the shudder rising just beneath. She refused to name it. Refused to explain. But it was there—in the space between them, in the silence that didn’t need translating.

A plea. Quiet. Controlled. But unmistakable.

Tell me I’m not a machine. Tell me I’m still human.

Because she didn’t know anymore.

Those few seconds where she thought he wouldn't answer felt like a lifetime. Like being caught between life and death, teetering on the edge, waiting to see what side she would fall. 

It shouldn't have mattered.

If she wasn't... she would be a better soldat.

And she wanted that. Prided herself on it. 

He rose without a word, movements steady, and her thoughts stilled. She tilted her head to track him but kept her body disciplined—balanced somewhere between alert and waiting. Not tense. Not relaxed. Like a system stalled at the next line of code. Awaiting input.

He didn’t reach for her with metal. Didn’t lead with caution. It was his flesh hand that lifted—same as it had in the warehouse. The same careful angle. The same open intent.

He'd done it before. Could he do it again?

What startled her wasn’t the contact. It was the heat.

It hit like a warning before it settled. Her pulse spiked. He let it pass. Then his fingers began their search along a known path—the base of her skull, down the curve of the collar, slow and methodical. Brushing spots she’d scraped raw, but never reached. There was no force behind the touch. Just calibration.

She stared past him, through the wall, her chest too tight beneath the mask still sealed across her mouth. She could speak, but didn’t. There were no questions left to ask. Only the pulse in her throat and the silence between them. He worked without commentary. Mapped her like terrain—spine, clavicle, every hidden seam.

Then he drew back.

“It’s not working,” he said quietly.

She let out a breath. The tension didn’t release—just slipped deeper behind her eyes, where he couldn’t see it. She was grateful for that, not realising that it left space for something else until it was too late. He saw it. He saw the disappointment. 

He hesitated for a moment before moving closer.

“Maybe, if I...”

She bit down on the instinct to snap. There was no dignity in reasserting control she’d already lost. He didn’t owe her help. She hadn’t asked for it. That he hadn’t walked away already—that he remained, without complaint or caution—felt like something unstable. Something she couldn’t afford to reject out of habit.

He stepped behind her. She didn’t move. His fingers brushed her matted hair aside—no tenderness, no force, just enough. Then came the metal. A cool thumb at her nape. Two fingers braced against the top of her spine. She could hear the two surfaces grinding together.

“You’re wound tight,” he said.

Another clipped retort formed, stalled, and dissolved. It would only prove him right.

“Yes,” she admitted. The word stung in her mouth.

“Try to relax.”

Not a request. Not a command. Just an opening—one she could take if she wanted to make progress. Or ignore if she wasn't ready to find out the answer.

She inhaled through her nose. Let it go slowly. Her shoulders dropped.

His hand shifted. Firmer now. Pressing into the strain—not to soothe, but to make room. He didn’t console. Didn’t coax. Just gave her something solid to push against.

She focused on the contact. The dual warmth and cool of it. The way it didn’t push, didn’t demand—just asked.

Not a threat. 

Just there. 

The mask retracted with a low sweep, heat lifting from her skin like a seal breaking. Air hit her lips.

Bucky flinched back immediately.

She reached behind and caught his wrist, too tightly, pressing his hand flat to her spine with a sharp, unfiltered urgency.

“Keep going,” she hissed, too quiet to carry.

He didn’t reply. But he didn't pull away again. His hand stayed where she placed it—steady and unhurried.

She could feel her impatience—perhaps even excitement—building, but she forced herself to let him lead this. She had failed. He had not.

When she let go, he resumed.

Fingers traced the length of her back, slow and deliberate. Not as though he were touching it—but her. Along each ridge of armour, over vulnerability spots she hadn’t thought to map. The suit tracked him, weighing his intent. She could feel it—awareness shifting just beneath the surface, subtle but alert. Something coiled inside her muscles eased.

A panel loosened.

Edges softened.

There was no hiss. No mechanical disengage. The armour didn’t release so much as relent. It peeled back in smooth, fluid layers, folding in on itself with unnerving grace.

Not resistance surrendered—but permission granted.

It moved like it had made the choice.

Like it had been waiting.

Her shoulders dropped half an inch. The air touched her spine.

And then there was nothing between her and the room at all.

Her eyelids lifted slowly. She hadn’t realised they’d shut. The air felt different now—cooler. Empty. She looked down.

Her face shifted before she could stop it—lip curling, not in revulsion, exactly, but something adjacent. A flinch at the unfamiliar. Skin stretched over bone. Dull scarring, uneven tone, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to her chest and stomach. No suit, just flesh. Dirty, stinking, imperfect—

She turned toward the mirror above the vanity then stopped.

“Human,” she murmured. The word barely cleared her throat.

Her shoulders shifted. She moved experimentally—rolled a wrist, tilted a hip, watched the reflection respond. Muscle beneath skin, folding and flexing. She scanned all of it—angles, curves, patches of hair.

It didn’t look right. But it didn’t look wrong either. Just… unfamiliar. Like meeting herself for the first time.

When she’d finished studying the front, she turned.

Her back was different. Still scarred. Still human. But altered.

The parts that marked her as something else—she could see them now. Faint, almost invisible. Five discs pressed flush to her spine, spaced with surgical precision. Embedded just beneath the artificial skin, but clear once seen. Not quite her tone. Off by a fraction. From the base of her skull to her tailbone.

She reached.

Fingers brushed the first disc between her shoulder blades, then the next near her nape.

Cold. Smooth. Set deep.

Her hand stilled. Palm flat against her back.

For a moment, she didn’t assess. Didn’t calculate. Just held.

As if committing it to memory. As if the gentleness might make it less profound.

She was real. And for once, her own touch didn’t feel like the first strike in a war.

A hum cracked through her skull. Static. Her vision faded around the edges, white-noise blooming behind her eyes.

Behold, gentlemen, my creation… Isn’t she beautiful?

Her breath caught, sharp and sudden, as her fingers locked around the edge of the dresser to steady herself. Wood splintered beneath her grip, a faint crack slicing through the quiet like a warning shot.

Behind her, she heard Bucky shift. A short inhale—tight and sharp—like he’d been holding his breath.

“You okay?” she heard him ask.

When she glanced over her shoulder, he was standing rigid, fists clenched, eyes pinned to the ceiling with surgical discipline.

“Bucky,” she said, her voice cracked.

“What?”

“I remember something.”

She didn’t wait. Shoved off the dresser and dropped to a crouch beside the bed. Her eyes locked on the backpack. She’d seen him with it enough times to know it was in there. Her hands moved without grace—shoving clothes aside, scattering bandages. Nothing else mattered. If she didn’t write it down, it would vanish. Gone like smoke. Like every other piece of her that never stayed.

When she couldn’t find it fast enough, she up-ended it and let the entire contents fall out.

She found it by sound first—a solid thunk on the floorboards. Both of them moved.

They reached for it in the same breath, but her fingers closed first.

The notebook.

"Hey—"

She snatched it to her chest and staggered backward, pulse thudding in her throat. Bucky froze. One step closer, hand raised—not a threat, but not far off.

“Give it back,” he snapped. Calm. Cold. Daring her to disobey.

“Give me a second,” she said, already flipping it open. The pages blurred. Her vision tunnelled. She wasn’t even reading. Just searching. Somewhere near the back—yes—an empty page.

She dropped to the floor, knees jarring against the wood. The pen was tucked into the spine; she wrenched it free and nearly cracked the casing in her grip. She wrote blindly at first, scratching out words and fragments—faces, voices, the cadence of a sentence she could still hear but no longer place.

Already, the images were slipping. Blurring at the edges like they had somewhere else to be. She hissed in frustration, dragging the memory back with sheer force. She clawed at it. Someone dragging wreckage out of a fire that threatened to destroy it.

She stabbed the final word into the page, the nib of the pen nearly piercing through. As promised, she backed off immediately, lifting her hands to signal her surrender. No threat to his precious notebook.

“Look,” she said, voice edged with urgency. “Look.”

Bucky didn’t move at first. Too busy trying to murder her with his eyes still. His hands flexing in and out as though working through the urge to strangle her.

Then, finally, he stepped forward, eyes scanning the cramped, jagged handwriting.

On display. Touched.

Mr. White

Insure greatest investment

Two sup SS for WS

Payment upon delivery

He frowned. “What is this?”

She was already nodding, the words tumbling together in her mind like loose stones. “I was in a room. Steel walls, cold floor. But hot. A ship, I think. A man—South African, older. He was showing me off to others. Like a product.” Her eyes darted to the page again. “One of them was called Mr. White. I remember that. And—he said he wasn’t stupid. That he’d insure his investment.” Her finger pressed into the paper, just beneath the final lines. “That was the deal. You—for them.”

He read it again, slower this time, anchoring her words to what was scrawled in ink.

"You were sold to HYDRA?"

She shook her head. A tight motion. Her stomach pulled. “No. No, he never meant to lose me. That wasn’t the plan.”

Bucky’s jaw locked. The crease between his brows cut deeper. “So what happened?”

Her arms crossed in close, almost reflexive. “I don’t know. But I don’t think it ended with a handshake.”

Silence settled, the kind that clicked into place like a puzzle piece neither of them wanted to fit.

His jaw worked. “And considering I’m not in Siberia right now—”

“—the deal never got honoured,” she finished for him, a grim nod punctuating her words. “And he’s down a super soldier. One with millions in vibranium invested in her.”

Her hand hovered over the notebook, then pulled back. She wasn’t sure which part disturbed her more—the memory, or the certainty that more were coming.

Bucky braced his fist against the dresser top and bowed his head. The tension in his shoulders was unmistakable—drawn tight across bone and metal. He didn’t speak. Just stood there, weight coiled behind his eyes, trying to make sense of a future they couldn’t see and a past they only had pieces of.

She watched him through the mirror, still reeling from what had surfaced. Her hands flexed at her sides, uncertain whether to wait or to act. When he moved, so did she—instinctively—but his hand touched her shoulder before she could pass.

Not a command. Not a barrier. Just a brief, deliberate point of contact.

She paused.

There was something unfamiliar in his posture. His jaw twitched. His throat worked. He looked—not concerned, not angry—but unsure. The emotion didn’t fit. Not on him. Fear, yes. Frustration, always. But this?

Nervousness.

Her mouth opened to question him, but he moved first, pressing something against her chest. She caught it on reflex, glancing down.

The towel. Damp at the edges. Still warm from his skin.

She stared at it, then at him. Her brow creased. His cheeks had coloured slightly, a ruddy bloom beneath the tired hollows of his face. There’d been no effort to provoke it. No exertion. No heat.

Was he ill? Deteriorating?

Before she could assess him further, he muttered something inaudible and tugged the towel from her grip, clumsily shaking it out before draping it over her shoulders. It hung awkwardly, and he bundled it closed at the front with more force than finesse—then stepped back, jaw locked.

He didn’t meet her eye again.

Just turned away, found his place on the bed, and opened up the notebook.

She looked down at the knot of towel he’d shoved into her hands. Damp. Heavy. Cooling against her skin.

She hadn’t been cold.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER NINE

She was behind a closed—now slightly crooked—door, but he could still feel her.

Not in a sentimental way. More like the lingering pull of a detonated blast. The echo of something too loud to ignore.

He sat against the headboard, notebook open but untouched, fingers braced near the spine like he might turn a page if he stared long enough. He didn’t. His mind kept looping. Not on the memory she’d scrawled down—though that should’ve been priority—but on everything after. Her behaviour. Her silence. The way she’d stood there, naked and unmoved, like it didn’t matter.

Every time he thought he had her figured out—had the measure of her temperament, knew how to navigate it—she changed the rules.

She was always easier to deal with when she was angry. Anger had direction. It was manageable. Predictable. Usually showed up when she was frustrated, which was most of the time. The source didn’t matter. Just the outcome. She got sharp, defensive, and sometimes spiteful. If he really pushed it. Misery loves company, and she didn’t mind dragging him down with her.

That was when she was the most insufferable. When empathy was wasted on contact. The smart move was always the same: wait it out. Let her spit fire and burn out.

And once she was spent, the real danger began.

She never softened. Not the way most people did. Vulnerability didn’t look like openness on her—it was utter stillness, or singular-focused tasking. Like corrupted code looping through a dead system. Her thoughts turned inward, acidic, and she got quiet. He didn’t think her mind was a peaceful place to be during those times.

That was when he could speak to her. If he timed it right. If he gave her something first. Nothing she’d asked for, but something she could interpret as earned. A truth. A story. An admission. Whatever let her believe he wasn’t just tolerating her. Something she could compare to her own experience.

Something she could learn from.

A prediction for what was, and would keep, happening.

It also helped build enough rapport that he managed to wake up every morning without her knife embedded in his chest.

It wasn’t a good system. Certainly not anything he should be betting his life on. But it was the only one they had.

Everything else between them was guesswork. A mess of shifting thresholds. Some days she’d listen. Other days, the same words would earn him a look like she was mapping out his weak points. Preparing for the moment she was trained enough in evading HYDRA to go off on her own. And still, he kept trying.

She wasn’t impossible. She was just… limited. Three dominant instincts governed everything she did: fear, anger, and curiosity. Mostly the first two.

Which was why the return of that blank, shutdown silence had hit him harder than it should’ve.

He’d forgotten about it. The way she went still when touched. Rigid, held firm, but off. Like someone had flicked a switch and she got frozen at attention. He’d seen it the first time, in the warehouse. When she’d let him reach for the collar of her suit without a word. When she should have been spitting.

He hadn’t expected it to happen again. Not after all that anger. Not after all that fight.

But she’d stood there, stripped bare of metal, flesh exposed, and still hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even blinked.

He hadn’t meant to look. Hadn’t wanted to. He knew the second she realised she was naked—really realised—everything would shift again. He’d tried to give her space. Tried to give her dignity, even if she didn’t seem to need it.

But that was the part he kept circling.

She didn’t seem to need it.

Didn’t flinch when touched. Didn’t cover herself when exposed. Didn’t read nudity as anything worth reacting to.

And that…

That didn’t sit right.

He didn’t have the full picture. But he had enough to form an outline. Someone had stripped that instinct out of her. Repeatedly. Cleanly. Without shame or permission or context. And now it was gone.

Because she didn’t know it was supposed to be there.

And the worst part?

He didn’t think she’d lost it recently.

He knew what it felt like to question instincts. That half-stutter where it took a moment to separate his thoughts from the Soldier’s. He’d seen it in the mirror a few times. Tried to hide it. But it wasn’t something that could be controlled.

HYDRA hadn’t done this. The absence was too complete—too comprehensive—to be down to the machines they used. They wiped memory, but only on the surface. It was more like they were packaged up and moved to somewhere dark and hard to find. This wasn't that. She’d been living like this for a long time—long enough that she didn’t just ignore basic boundaries, she operated like they’d never existed.

Which meant someone had done more than dehumanise her. They’d overwritten the entire concept. Written her as something to be used.

His stomach rolled as his thoughts went to places too dark to name.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor like it might offer a way out. What it gave him instead was the same cold equation he’d faced for half a year.

What was done could not be undone.

Only prevented from happening again.

Bucky knew what came next. He could already see the cracks forming. She was going to keep remembering. She wouldn’t want to. But it would happen.

He hadn’t known why he’d put so much effort into this flimsy alliance until now. Not truly. It would have functioned well enough for them to part ways as it had been—him, reigning her in from setting fire to everything and her doing the things he could no longer bring himself to do. Truthfully, he’d refused to examine it further than him trying to make amends for his past by preventing more death and destruction by someone he could stop. Lighten his guilty load a little. Perhaps it had been something even more selfish.

It didn’t really matter what his original motivations had been.

They’d changed now.

And if he wanted to succeed, he had to have a plan. A real plan.

The enemies looking for them had doubled—or would, very soon. HYDRA and whoever created the Wraith.

If HYDRA had outsourced her, then whoever made her wasn’t some chump. He had to have the resources, the power, the sickness, and the knowledge to forge weapons like them. And the fact that he was sitting on enough vibranium to cover a human body and then gamble with it? Well, that was just the cherry on the cake.

Bucky ran through his very limited options, landing on the most impossible first.

Steve. Bucky didn’t know why—not really—couldn’t explain why he was so sure of it. But he knew Steve would help him. No questions asked.

And that was the problem.

Because going to Steve meant more than asking for backup. It meant showing up for a conversation he never wanted to have. Was too much of a coward to face. To have to look him in the eyes and tell him everything he’d done as the Winter Soldier, that his friend was dead and that he was all that was left.

And now, there was another one. Another ghost with a fractured past and blood on her hands. He’d have to explain why it mattered to him. Why she had started to feel like his.

His responsibility.

His fault.

And if Steve said she couldn’t be saved—if Steve decided she was too far gone—could Bucky leave her?

Could he abandon her to secure his own salvation?

The thought made his stomach knot.

He exhaled sharply and dragged a metal hand over his face, grounding himself in the present.

No decisions yet. No contact. Not until he knew more. Not until he was sure she’d survive being seen through someone else’s eyes.

The first thing they needed were papers.

Whatever came next, they had to be mobile. Crossing borders without ID would get them killed—or worse, captured. Backwater villages weren’t an option for any length of time. There were too few people, their communities too close knit.

He found himself retracing his steps. Re-establishing his original plan, just with a passenger he could only pray wasn’t going to be kicking and screaming the entire time.

A city offered anonymity. Movement. A few days’ grace before anyone sifted through enough reports to notice a theft, longer before HYDRA flagged the trail.

By then, they’d be gone. Two ghosts threading a new route. Another country. Another name.

It wouldn’t fix anything. But it would buy time.

Time to think. Time to plan.

Time for her to remember who she was. To figure out if there was still a person in there somewhere—how damaged she was—and who she wanted that person to become.

He could wait.

He could keep her safe long enough for her to choose.

It would be her first real choice.

He could give her that.

The water shut off.

Bucky lifted his head, eyes trained on the door as it creaked open and she stepped out. A towel hung loose around her frame, clinging more from friction than intent. Her hair dripped down her shoulders in uneven rivulets, plastering dark strands to her pale skin. She looked… better. Not rested. Not at ease. But scrubbed raw of filth and decay. Like someone unearthed from rubble and finally rinsed clean of the worst of it.

He nodded toward the end of the bed by his feet. “Clothes.”

In hindsight, he should have known the instruction was too simple, but he’d still been deep in his own head.

She followed the gesture without question, her gaze landing on the folded sweatpants and hoodie—his, not hers. The only truly clean items of clothing they had between them. Too big, but serviceable.

She didn’t hesitate. Just unwrapped the towel and let it fall.

Bucky’s eyes shot back to the ceiling, his head whacking against the headboard in his haste.

It didn’t matter. He’d seen everything.

Again.

His jaw locked as the image burned into his memory. The scars. The damage. The map of violence carved across her skin that should’ve been protected. He didn’t know if her injuries had occurred before the installation, or there was another layer of cruelty to her imprisonment.

He didn’t want to think about it.

“Jesus,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face.

He felt her eyes on him as fabric rustled. “What?”

When he heard her stop moving, he chanced a glance. Released a breath when he saw her fully dressed. The material swamping her should have been funny, but he wasn’t laughing. She looked small. And for the first time, fragile. Nothing had changed. She was no less strong than she’d been when hauling bales that afternoon.

But also, everything had changed.

Bucky’s tongue flicked over his bottom lip as he considered how to go about this. Because he had to. No one else was going to tell her things like this. No one ever had.

“You can’t… do that,” he said carefully.

“Do what?”

Her tone was clean. Straightforward. No edge, no shame. No situational awareness.

He gestured vaguely. “Just drop your towel like that.”

She blinked. It was slow, but not defensive. Like she was logging the statement and running a diagnostic.

“I… should fold it?” she asked, reaching tentatively for where it had pooled on the floor.

His hand curled tighter against his knee. “No. Well—yes. But that’s not what I meant.”

Her brows creased. An edge of that building frustration showing through.

“Then what?”

Here goes nothing.

“Your body,” he said, quieter now. “It’s private.”

She blinked again. “Private.”

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck like he regretted starting this sentence and had no idea how to finish it. “Yeah. It’s… not something you just show. It’s yours.”

Still, she stared. At least she wasn’t defensive. Her knife was still across the room. She was decidedly vacant. Like the words weren’t mapping to anything real.

“You only show it to people you trust.”

That seemed to land. Language she could link to an emotion she understood.

She was, at last, thinking about it.

After a long, painful minute, she tilted her head.

She didn’t get it, that much was obvious—her eyes hadn’t even flickered for a moment—there was no comprehension of what he was trying to tell her. But, for whatever reason, she also saw no point to argue.

“Okay…” she said slowly, sitting down on the bed beside him.

Apparently, they were sharing it.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TEN

He slept. She didn’t.

And for once it had nothing to do with his proximity. Her body knew the difference now—between threat and closeness. That wasn’t what kept her wired.

The room was dark, washed only in the thinnest cut of moonlight bleeding through crooked slats. The bed, softer than the forest floor, felt more alien. She lay stiffly, spine against worn sheets, each muscle locked in containment. No nearer to him than when they’d slept in the dirt.

He breathed evenly. Not peace—just rhythm. His face remained tense, brow furrowed, mouth set hard. His shoulder curled inward; muscle drawn tight he expected a rude awakening. Even in sleep, he didn’t uncurl.

Her body was private.

She turned the phrase over again, trying to find the mechanism inside it. What did trust have to do with nudity? With skin? With ownership of something she'd never considered hers?

She’d never trusted her handlers. Or the doctors. But she’d never refused them, either. They’d touched her—observed her—without hesitation. Without asking. Sometimes it hurt. Sometimes it didn’t. It had never mattered.

But there was something—something old and faded—that came before. A feeling. A reaction she’d felt but never given in to.

That was the part she circled now. The part that wouldn’t lie still.

It hadn’t always felt that way.

As sleep evaded her, she visited the nightmares that lay underneath conscious thought. Just sensations. Feelings. Twists of her gut and things that made her palms sweat without taking form.

It made her skin shiver—no, crawl.

She focused on it now. Sought it. Tracked it like prey. Not the scenes—those were fragmented and useless—but the feeling. The shape of her revulsion.

The hands. Flat. Cold. Uninvited. Clinical. At times, too soft.

Never on her terms.

She hadn’t resisted. There had never been room for that. She’d performed. Obeyed. Categorised sensation like data—pain, pressure, temperature—then dismissed it.

It hadn’t been apathy. It had been dismissal.

She hadn’t not felt it.

She’d just been trained to ignore it.

And then there were newer memories.

His hands.

The most lethal she’d ever felt. And yet—no recoil. No warning flicker in her chest. No crawl beneath the skin.

Why?

His touch hadn’t been soft. It had been direct, diagnostic. Fingers tracing seam lines, pressure points. Mapping her, but not claiming. Testing, but not taking.

And the suit—her suit—had responded. Not with rejection. With receptivity. As though they were learning each other. Speaking in a language she didn’t yet know.

No. It went deeper than that.

He hadn’t been searching for access. He’d been offering reassurance. Through touch alone.

I am not a threat, his hands said. I am here to help you.

It could’ve been manipulation. A calculated softening of her edges. But if it was a trick, it was a poor one. He hadn’t disarmed her. Hadn’t stripped her of agency or demanded anything in return. He’d covered her.

He’d told her that her body was private.

Why?

He hadn’t gained ground. Hadn’t earned leverage. She hadn’t let down her guard. If anything, she’d reinforced it. And yet, none of it aligned with the protocols she understood.

She sifted through the variables. Tried to isolate motive. But the loop kept spinning, same question circling like a fly.

If her body—nude, unshielded—carried unspoken weight, communicated meaning without words… what were the terms?

He had been shirtless in front of her. Had made no effort to conceal it. Did that indicate trust? Fatigue? Was he faltering? Or was it more specific than that? Were certain areas encoded differently? Genitals, breasts, thighs—why those?

She exhaled, sharp and low, then turned her head toward him. His face in shadow. Body slack with sleep. Still shirtless.

Her eyes narrowed.

Why was he doing this?

Not running with her. But going to all this effort. She knew he was trying to pry her open, learn about her, coax memories to the surface through repetition. He was building something. Slowly. Strategically. A long game designed to wear her down, not physically—but cognitively. Psychologically. She could see it.

Every question was a variation of the same three.

What was your name?

How long were you theirs?

Who might remember you?

He never asked them outright anymore. He’d learned not to. She shut down too fast. Retaliated. Grew mean to the point of vicious at times.

But he asked them all the same. Subtle phrasing. Indirect references. Small tests of memory and association.

It didn’t work. She didn’t know. That was what made it unbearable.

Not the questions.

The blank spaces.

The emptiness where something should’ve been.

She hated him for reminding her.

And if she was honest—truly honest—her aggression wasn’t just frustration. It was defence. Because something in her wanted to answer. Wanted to remember.

And that, more than anything, scared her.

Lately, it was harder to dismiss the voice inside—the one that recoiled from the memory of violence, that hesitated before making a decision. The one that recognised the soft things. Warmth. Touch. Mercy.

The human voice.

She didn’t want it.

Because remembering didn’t look painless. Not for him. Not for Bucky.

Whenever he spoke of the past—of Steve—his face changed. Tightened. Like the memories themselves had claws.

She didn’t care why. But it felt… private. Like she wasn’t meant to see it. Like even looking was a trespass.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That it had no tactical value and therefore no bearing on her survival.

Just another useless file.

One she kept adding to anyway.

She shut her eyes forcefully, refusing to give life to the most terrifying thought of all.

That perhaps emptiness—mindlessness—was not so bad, after all.

And maybe, just maybe, a part of her missed when things were much simpler.

*

The sun hadn’t fully risen. Pale light crept through the thin slats of the boarded windows, silvering the edges of the room.

She’d had enough of pretending to sleep.

She moved before it touched the floorboards. Carefully. Quietly. Her breath shallow, her weight distributed. Not a creak sounded as she sat up, then stood. The towel still lay on the floor beside the bed.

She crossed to the door in silence, the way only someone like her could. She cast a glance back only once.

The Soldier hadn’t stirred. One arm tucked beneath the pillow. Face slightly slacker than it had been most of the night. The kind of sleep that only came after collapse—when the body had nothing more to give. She didn’t envy it.

The door didn’t squeal when she opened it. That had just been luck.

Clear of the room, she rolled up the sleeves of the hoodie and folded over the waistband of the sweatpants until they were no longer a trip hazard.

Down the hall, down the stairs—each step mapped and measured before her foot touched. She didn’t expect company. She didn’t prepare for it. The kitchen came into view with the dull grey of a pre-dawn haze softening every edge.

But as she reached for her boots, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

The farmer. A mug in hand. Steam curling faintly from its surface.

They stared at each other.

He spoke first, slow and lilting, not loud enough to be startled by. “Nu ai haine ale tale?”

His gaze dropped to the bunched fabric at her waist, then returned. No judgement in it—just a mild, assessing frown. A tilt of the head.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t understand. Wouldn’t have known how to respond even if she had.

Her hands stayed at her sides.

His face shifted then—not in alarm or anger as Bucky had warned her the night before. She thought it was softer. He stepped sideways out of her locked stare.

“Cafea?” he offered, quieter this time. Thumb tapping the rim of his mug.

She could guess what that meant.

A short shook her head.

“Work,” she said, pointing toward the door. Her voice cracked slightly. It was the first time she’d spoken in hours. It sounded wrong in the quiet, but she didn’t know why.

He turned, followed her gesture to the half-lit fields beyond the window. His gaze held there a moment. Something unreadable flickered through it. Pity. Maybe sadness. Emotions she didn’t understand or care for.

Not after the night she’d had.

He nodded once, then waved her on.

She stepped into her boots and walked out, aware of his eyes following her all the way to the door.

It didn’t register as a threat—nor as that prickling disquiet she’d catalogued overnight. It was something she could choose not to turn around for.

The air met her skin like damp cloth. She tasted it—metal and loam, the faint ghost of ash beneath. Wet soil. Old grain. The copper tang of frost caught between hay bales and fence wire. Her breath didn’t cloud, but the cold gripped her anyway—tight, alert, alive.

She pushed up her sleeves.

The fabric slid easily, and she stood still a moment, bare skin to wind, letting it hit. It sank deeper than expected. Down to the joints.

It ached.

She didn’t pull the sleeves back down.

The incline behind the farmhouse took no effort. Damp grass gave underfoot. The roof disappeared behind her. Then the chimney. Then the porch rail.

At the top: nothing. No barn. No Bucky. No man with a mug.

Just open field.

And her.

The machine sat in the hollow below the fence line, ribs bowed under its own weight. Plastic wrap curled in pale loops inside, sun-warped and tight. Rust bled down its seams in thin vertical stains.

She stepped closer.

Her fingers brushed the flank—slow, steady. Steel rasped against her knuckles. She registered each shift in texture without naming it. The grain of corrosion. The chalk edge where paint had peeled. Damp, ridged cold where the metal held water in a crease.

She moved along the baler drum. Pressed her palm to the plastic. It squeaked.

She stopped.

Pressed again. Slower.

There it was. That high, taut sound. Like breath drawn through teeth.

She didn’t move for a while after that.

The clouds began to break. A line of sunlight caught the rust. Not warm yet. Just brighter.

She didn’t look up.

Instead, she leaned in and placed both hands flat against the frame. Arms bare. Wind grazing skin that hadn’t felt open air in… she couldn’t remember what it was supposed to feel like.

She stayed like that.

Still enough to feel the silence start to settle around her.

Still enough to let it.

Just for a moment.

*

The damp had burned off fast once the sun rose, leaving sweat caught beneath the hoodie and a fine layer of hay dust clinging to the inside of her sleeves. The baler groaned through each rotation, a deep, arthritic sound that timed itself to her movements. It shuddered as she moved, sheared, compressed, dropped.

It was easier without the suit. Her reach had returned. So had her balance. No heat locked in. No second skin trying to think for her.

But the hoodie stayed on. Loose at the neck. Heavy through the arms. Every inch of fabric a barrier she could still control.

She didn’t take it off.

A bale hit the chute, neat and square. She turned, reached for the next bundle—

—and caught movement at the edge of her vision.

Bucky. Cresting the hill.

His gait was slow. Unhurried. It was a warning sign, like this was a visit he intended to stretch longer than she could bear. Something dangled from his left hand, the paper wrapped around it darkened with grease.

She didn’t look. Didn’t speak. Just moved. Loaded the next bundle and pressed the starter.

The machine wheezed and hacked before grinding into rhythm again. He stepped in closer. Leaned his forearms on the baler’s opposite side, eyes level with hers through the cage of the mechanism.

She didn’t meet them.

“Felt like doing some extra work?” he asked, voice light enough to pass for casual. “He’s only paying for silage.”

“Don’t mistake it for generosity,” she muttered, not pausing in her work. “Or newfound goodwill toward a man who looks at me like I was dropped here by spacecraft. I needed something to do.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“No.” Flat. A clean severance.

He waited. As if silence might coax more from her.

“Any reason why?”

She looked up. Briefly. Just long enough to flatten him with a glance—dry, dismissive, sharp-edged in a way that didn’t need words.

His brows lifted a fraction. Not chastened—just clocking it. That same quiet shrug of his, all weary tolerance and push-me-see-what-happens.

“Any particular reason?”

She jabbed the stop button. Harder than necessary. The baler groaned, then fell quiet, the last of its momentum shuddering through the frame. She straightened, wiping her palm on her thigh, and stared at him across the machine.

“Why are you doing this?”

The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. There was no fire in them—only the clean, cool blade of intent. She was done with posturing, done with the dance. If he wanted something, he could say it.

Bucky didn’t flinch. He turned his head slowly, gaze drifting across the field—not away, just elsewhere. As if orienting himself. Not recalibrating a response but sifting through which one would do the least damage.

When his eyes found hers again, there was weight in them. Signalling to her that she wasn’t going to appreciate what he was about to say.

“You’re at a crossroads.”

There was no judgment in it. No warning either. Just a quiet observation from someone who had stood at too many of them and made more wrong turns than right.

“You’ve got choices to make,” he continued. “I’m just making sure you know what your options are.”

She scoffed. Not loud, not cruel—just a dry exhale through her nose, as if the sound itself bored her. “I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”

“I know,” he said, and that was worse somehow—the offhand tone, the lack of inflection, the way he didn’t even try to sell the reassurance. It irked. Scraped against something already raw.

“I just know what it’s like, is all.”

It hit low. Harder than she wanted it to.

He wasn’t drawing a line between them. He was placing something down, something of his, like a card turned over too late in a losing game.

Like they were somehow the same.

Her hands curled against her thighs, fingers flexing with the need to strike something or run. “I’m nothing like you.”

He studied her, a faint crease forming at the bridge of his brow. “No?”

“No.”

There was a pause, short but final. He nodded, as though the answer merely confirmed what he’d already been circling around.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “I’m weak. Defective, even. Isn’t that what you think?”

He stepped forward once, slow and deliberate, gaze locked across the baler’s body. The machine between them felt more like a border now, less like equipment and more like a demarcation neither of them could cross.

“But at least I can sleep.”

He dropped the sandwich with a flick of his wrist, the paper slapping flat against the steel. The sound was sharp, incongruous with the soft rustle of wind in the grass around them.

“Eat your breakfast.”

Then he turned and walked away.

She didn’t move. Her breath felt stalled somewhere in her chest, and the silence stretched too long, too close, like pressure on a wound not yet closed.

She stood there with the machine quiet beside her and the sandwich untouched.

*

The work was finished. And then some. As it turned out, two super soldiers nursing their own separate rage could move a hell of a lot of hay.

They’d spent the day in silence. Not the easy kind, not the practiced sort—but the brittle quiet of effort used as avoidance. Eyes averted. Bales tossed harder than necessary. Buttons slapped instead of pressed. Even the farmer hadn’t tried to intervene when Bucky mentioned they’d be leaving after dinner. He’d only nodded, then insisted—gently, but without room for debate—that they wash up first.

She was stepping down from the threshold when she felt a tug at her sleeve.

“Este a fiicei mele. Nu se va supăra,” the old man said, holding out a folded bundle of dark blue fabric.

She stopped.

Didn’t take it. Didn’t move.

He looked past her, searching for help. “Hainele ei sunt prea mari,” he said to Bucky, hesitant now. “M-am gândit că ar putea…”

His voice trailed off.

Bucky stepped forward without hesitation, the rough edge in his features easing—not entirely, but enough to make room for something gentler. He took the bundle in both hands, nodded once, and answered with quiet formality.

“Mulțumesc, domnule. Ați fost foarte amabil cu noi.”

The old man offered a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. He dipped his head in return. “Aveți grijă de voi înșivă.”

They walked on.

He stood at the edge of the property, watching them go—hands in his pockets, weight on his heels. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. Whether he watched for seconds or minutes didn’t matter. The act was over. The part was played.

She didn’t have to micromanage every fissure anymore.

She could breathe again.

They’d only just reached the treeline when Bucky let the bundle fall.

It hit the forest floor with a dull thump, landing among damp leaves and rotted pine needles. He didn’t slow.

She did.

Her steps faltered as her brow pulled into a frown. “What—”

He turned to face her. His expression was unreadable.

“It’s a dress,” he said. “Not much use out here.”

Then he turned again and kept walking.

She stood where she was.

The bundle hadn’t come undone, but the edge of the fabric had unfurled just enough to reveal a line of blue. Not new. Faded, softened by years of washing. It was already beginning to soak through, the moisture from the ground leeching into the folds.

“Why did he have a dress?” she asked, not loud.

Bucky didn’t turn this time. “It was his daughter’s.”

That was all.

She looked at the cloth, growing heavier by the second. Unmoving, unsalvaged. It shouldn’t have mattered. And it didn’t. It was just fabric. A domestic artefact from a life she didn’t understand, offered without strings, left behind without consequence.

And still, she hesitated.

There was no logic to it. No tactical advantage. No reason at all for her to reach down and carry something so impractical. The Soldier had said it himself—it was useless. Too thin to offer protection against the elements. There was too much excess material that could get caught, snagged or grabbed.

So she left it.

Turned away from the damp cotton and the shape of a kindness she couldn’t name. Put her shoulders back, realigned her breath, and followed the Winter Soldier into the dark.

But the distance between her and the bundle felt heavier than it should have.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The car was an easy mark. A relic from another decade—sun-bleached, steel-bodied, reliable in the way things only became after enough use had worn the shine off. Nondescript enough to pass unnoticed. Forgettable by design.

They’d taken the direct route this time. No wide arcs. No unnecessary detours. A journey that should’ve stretched two weeks compressed into six days. They hadn’t bothered avoiding obstacles, not unless the terrain left them no choice. They moved through or over whatever stood in their path, conserving energy for speed, not subtlety.

She couldn’t tell if it was tactical—one of his unspoken calculations—or if he’d quietly decided on a deadline and kept it to himself. Either way, she wasn’t going to ask. She wanted to. But she wouldn’t.

The silence between them had thickened since the farm. Not cold. Just brittle. Words were sparse. When they came, they broke things. Each exchange seemed to end in curt deflection or quiet recoil. Conversation had become another kind of hazard.

Sleep helped. Sometimes. But even that was rationed now.

Once again, they were running on fumes. Bone-deep tired. Filthy. Close to rank. And stuck in another confined space together.

The car smelled of old fuel, cold sweat, and the lingering ghost of artificial pine—an air freshener faded to grey, still swinging from the rearview mirror like a relic of better intentions. Beneath that, the sour edge of stale cigarettes clung to the upholstery. The door pockets were cluttered with drink cans, gas station receipts, and cheap snack wrappers—a breadcrumb trail of someone else’s life. Ordinary. Rooted. Civilian.

Now theirs.

Camouflage, bought in bulk. Worn until it fit.

The hum of the asphalt filled the space between them. Low, steady, unchanging. Bucky drove like the car was part of him—hands loose on the wheel, gaze fixed ahead, every movement the product of instinct. Muscle memory, not thought. He didn’t need the headlights. Neither of them did. Their vision cut clean through the dark, sharp enough to read a license plate at a hundred yards.

They didn’t turn the beams on until they hit the main road, slipping into the stream of evening traffic like ghosts. Just another pair of tired silhouettes behind glass.

She reached for the glovebox.

What she wanted was a weapon. What she found was a crumpled napkin, a few scratched coins, a brittle hair tie gone slack with time—and something that caught her eye.

A silver cylinder. Shining under the overhead dash. It looked like a bullet. Sleek, unfamiliar. Not the shape or weight of anything standard issue. A rare model, maybe. For a gun she hadn’t handled yet.

Her fingers curled around it automatically.

That part of her brain hadn’t dulled. Whatever else had been ripped from her—whatever names, allegiances, loyalties—her knowledge of weapons had remained intact. Impossibly intact. She remembered every gun she’d ever held. Every blade. Every angle of entry, every spray pattern, every life she’d taken and the precise mechanism by which it had ended.

The rest of her mind had started unspooling too, piece by piece. Slower. Less precise. Memories slipping through in broken intervals, sometimes soft-edged, sometimes jagged. They came most often in the quiet. In motion. In moments like this—engine purring, thoughts unmoored, nothing between her and the static but time.

Turning inward felt like winding a jack-in-the-box. The handle clicked. The music played. You never knew when something would spring.

She rolled the silver tube in her palm. Weighed it. Too light. Hollow, or nearly. Not ammunition, then. Something else dressed to look like it. A container, maybe. Or decoy. But it was cold to the touch and the shape felt good in her hand, so she kept it there. Let it turn between her fingers like worry stone or trigger.

The suit had stayed retracted so far—docile, almost compliant. She didn’t question why. Didn’t disturb it. There would come a time she’d need it again, and it would know. But for now, she could move without its interference. Skin to air. Nerve to world.

And she’d discovered—quietly, without ceremony—that she liked touching things. Surfaces. Textures. Heat and condensation and the thrum of vibration through solid mass. Sensation as data. Contact as distraction.

It made everything feel less sharp.

Or maybe just more real.

As she rolled the silver cylinder between her fingers, it came apart with a soft click.

She frowned. She hadn’t twisted it. Hadn’t applied pressure. But the two halves separated cleanly.

She turned them over in her hands with measured attention. One side was hollow—just casing. The other held a stub of deep red clay, flat at the base and smooth at the top. The colour was rich and dark, nearly black in the shadowed interior of the car. Arterial. It smelled faintly of salt and fat.

Something about it tugged at her. Not a memory. Not yet. But the shape of one. A phantom warmth, recognisable only by the contrast it struck against everything she was not.

She adjusted the mechanism, slow and careful. The base turned loosely, worn from years of repetition. As she rotated it, the clay rose. A soft peak curved into view—rounded, even, familiar in a way her body understood before her mind did.

Lipstick.

She stared at it, the realisation hovering just out of reach.

Then, without thinking, she brought it to her lips.

It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t even deliberate. Just the kind of instinctive impulse she’d trained herself to ignore—and this time didn’t.

She pressed the stick gently to her mouth. That wasn’t quite right. She adjusted, dragged it across the line of her lower lip.

The colour bloomed.

It felt wrong. Too thick. Sticky. The texture clung, foreign and dense. But the sensation rooted her in place. Anchored her.

The colour—

Something surfaced.

Not a weapon. Not a mission file. A face.

A woman—older, but not by much. Hair dark, rich, parted into soft waves that curled just above her shoulders. Their eyes matched. Same shape, same shade, but the woman’s gaze felt warm, like sinking into sunlit water. She was smiling. Not with performance, not with threat. Just… smiling.

There were words. Her lips moved around them. Painted red. Gentle, curving.

She knelt to meet her. Crouched low, one hand bracing on the floor, the other reaching out. Open. Familiar.

She didn’t make it.

The memory receded before it resolved. It didn’t crack or shatter—there was no sharp transition. Just a slow drift. A pulling away. Like descending through water. Like being lowered into something padded and quiet, weightless and child-sized.

She found herself in the passenger seat again. Back in the darkened car, the dashboard humming faintly beneath her fingers. The road lights slid across the windshield in intervals. Everything the same, and not.

She glanced toward the mirror. Her reflection met her unevenly.

The colour sat thick on her bottom lip—too much in some places, patchy in others. A smear more than a stroke. It had escaped the natural lines of her mouth, bled slightly at the edge of her chin.

A child’s imitation. A poor copy of something once precise.

Then Bucky’s voice broke the stillness, flat and almost deadpan. “There’s a saying about lipstick and pigs I think you should appreciate me keeping to myself right now.”

Her gaze stayed fixed on the glass. On the red.

“I know the saying,” she murmured, the words carrying far less bite than usual.

Bucky glanced sideways, not for long, just long enough to read the shift in her posture—the distracted focus, the way her hand hovered near the mirror even after the colour had dried. He sat with that for a moment, weighing something behind his eyes.

Then: “What did you remember?”

She clicked the lid back onto the lipstick with a clean snap. Didn’t put it down. Just curled her fingers around it like it was something worth keeping hold of.

“I don’t know who she was,” she said, too smoothly.

It was a lie, and he didn’t call her on it. A rare mercy. She didn’t acknowledge it. To do so would’ve punctured the silence too deeply—turned a gift into something negotiated.

“It’s not such a bad idea,” he said instead.

Her eyes narrowed. “What isn’t?”

He didn’t look at her this time. Kept his attention on the road. “Putting a little more effort into blending in. We got away with it at the farm—barely. But we’re going to be in Constanța for a while.”

“You said cities were safer,” she said. “More people. Less scrutiny.”

“They are,” he agreed. “But we’re not always going to be in a crowd. The receptionist’s going to see you every day. Not for long, but long enough to notice if something’s off.”

Something in her bucked against that. Not logically—just reflex. A raw, flaring edge of resistance she didn’t care to smother.

“Then I’ll kill her,” she said, cool and clean.

He exhaled through his nose, long and slow. Not quite a sigh.

His jaw twitched. Just once. She saw it. He wanted to snap back. Wanted to reach for the argument they both knew how to play.

But he didn’t.

He sat with it.

And that—that—unsettled her more than any threat.

She was used to two versions of him: the one who ignored her and the one who bit. Anything in between felt like strategy, and strategy meant change. It meant adaptation. She didn’t like what that implied.

The memory still sat heavy in her chest. That red mouth. That warmth. That version of softness she’d never been taught to defend against.

She’d been counting on a fight to burn it off.

“I know you think restraint puts you at a disadvantage,” Bucky said, his tone even. Not condescending. Not coaxing. Just offering shape to something she hadn’t yet named. “But you’re wrong.”

His hands stayed loose on the wheel, knuckles relaxed. His eyes didn’t leave the road.

“When we fought for them,” he continued, “we had no regard for our own safety. No calculation. Survival wasn’t the mission. We were disposable. Does that sound efficient to you?”

He let the question hang. Just for a moment.

“Does that kind of thinking help us now?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes stayed on the window, where the light from passing cars flickered like static.

She thought of the train. The agent. The kill.

She’d told herself it had been necessary. That she’d neutralised a threat. But that wasn’t the whole truth.

He hadn’t been confirmed. Just suspected.

And she hadn’t waited. She hadn’t adapted. She’d forced the outcome to match the instinct.

Kill first. Don’t ask. Don’t hesitate. The old protocol.

She’d planned to silence the witnesses too—four of them. She could still see their faces. How easily it might’ve happened. How closely it almost had.

But then what? Keep killing until the odds reset?

Her gaze shifted to Bucky. He didn’t look at her, but he nodded once, as if in response to the thought itself.

“I confirmed our position,” she said quietly.

“I’m not saying we would’ve gotten away clean,” he replied. “But you didn’t even try. Which means HYDRA didn’t just confirm where I was—they confirmed how I was found.”

She finished it for him, voice clipped. “Because the kill wasn’t clean.”

He nodded again. No smugness. No moral victory. Just gravity.

The train scene had revisited her more than once in the weeks since. Not as guilt—she’d kill that agent again, more efficiently, more violently if needed—but as a mental flaw. A glitch. It replayed when her guard slipped, when her control wavered. And lately, that happened more than she liked.

Bucky wasn’t scolding her. He was diagnosing the impulse.

The problem wasn’t that she’d killed. It was why. Emotion, not necessity. Fear, not strategy.

She looked down at the lipstick still curled in her hand. Then up, toward the rearview mirror.

The colour had dried into something uneven. Cracked at the corners. A poor copy of what she’d remembered. Not elegant. Not inviting. Just smeared red on a mouth that didn’t know what to do with softness.

But the memory—it hadn’t been of a killer. It had been of a woman. One who smiled. Who crouched and met her gaze like they were equals. Like she mattered.

Would the agent have looked twice if she’d looked like that? Would anyone?

Would HYDRA?

She tapped the tube lightly against her fingers, thoughtful. Calculating.

“So I should wear this?” she asked.

From the driver’s seat, a sound she’d only heard once before broke through the hum of the engine.

A chuckle. Low. Brief. Real.

“It’s gonna take more than a bit of lipstick,” Bucky said, amusement flickering in his voice.

She turned her head to study him fully. He wasn’t mocking her. Not really. The joke was at her expense, but it didn’t come with teeth this time. No edge. No intent to wound. And yet, something still twisted under her sternum—not shame, not anymore. Something sharper. Metallic at the back of her tongue.

Jealousy.

She recognised it. Had felt it before. Whenever he passed as something other than what he was. When strangers looked at him and didn’t see Soldat, didn’t see Asset, didn’t see assassin. When they saw a man. Just a man. Human.

And he let them.

He could let them.

She needed that. Wanted it—not to be believed, but to perform it. To wield it like a weapon.

To pass.

It wasn’t instinct. It wasn’t muscle memory. It was a choice. A cultivated skill. And she was done pretending it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t useful.

She slipped the lipstick into her pocket, the gesture careful. Deliberate.

“Alright,” she said. “Show me what to do.”

His smile dropped.

Brows pulled together, not in confusion, but in something heavier. Something closer to recognition. His eyes flicked to her mouth—where the pigment had dried uneven and blunt-edged, the curve of her lip still stained. She could feel it there, thick with scent. Fat, salt, something older than memory.

He didn’t answer right away.

For a moment, the only sound was the road.

Then he nodded. Once.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, okay.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWELVE

Bucky drove through the night, burning fuel and miles in equal measure, putting as much distance between them and the stolen vehicle report as the road would allow.

By the time he stopped for gas, she was out cold in the passenger seat, her head slumped against the window, cheek pressed to glass. She didn’t stir when the door opened, didn’t tense at the sound of boots on gravel. Too far under. Too deep for instinct to reach her.

It was the kind of sleep that worried him.

He’d pushed her hard. He wasn’t sorry for it.

Guilt wouldn’t undo it, and she wouldn’t welcome the apology anyway. She’d had time to rest—ample time—but she rarely took it. Most mornings he woke to find her hunched over his notebook, the one she’d commandeered without asking. Just sitting there, silent, eyes fixed on a page like the words might rearrange themselves if she stared long enough.

At first, he’d been ready to fight her for it.

He’d have broken her fingers without flinching if she’d tried to take it from him outright. Not because it was valuable. Not tactically. Not even sentimentally useful. There was nothing inside that helped them navigate safehouses or HYDRA chokes. No maps. No codes. Just fragments. Names of streets he wasn’t sure existed anymore. Bits of movies he only half-remembered. Songs he thought he liked. Women he might’ve kissed. None of it verified. All of it... almost.

He’d expected her to destroy it. To see the softness in it and punish him for it.

But she didn’t.

She handled it with less care than he’d liked—she crushed the corners he tried to preserve, carved into the pages he tried to keep legible. The pen had long since shattered into plastic shards at the bottom of his pack, so now they wrote with the bare ink tube, fingers stained, lines uneven.

And still, the notebook survived.

He wasn’t sure how she’d found it. Didn’t matter now. It was one of the few things she hadn’t weaponised. Probably because she’d started writing in it too.

Not many words. Never complete sentences. Just fragments.

Things that meant nothing to him.

And everything to her.

She hadn’t asked about Steve.

He knew she’d seen the name. It showed up on almost every page. Scrawled in the margins, sometimes mid-thought, like an anchor his subconscious still clung to. But she never mentioned it. Never asked. She wasn’t interested in getting to know him—not beyond his skillset. What he could do. What he could offer her. What pieces of him might be functional in service of her own survival.

That was fine. He didn’t need her curiosity.

What he needed—what he tracked—was progress.

Not the kind she reported out loud. The kind you had to look for. The lingering kind.

It was like watching himself in a mirror with a six-month delay. Seeing the old reflexes play out in someone else’s body. The same wounds, the same mistrust, the same resistance dressed up as control. Hindsight didn’t help. He couldn’t intercept the worst parts. Couldn’t soften the fall.

He’d thought she’d go back for the dress.

He hoped she would.

Not because it mattered. But because it would have meant something—anything—had made it through. That she’d attached even a scrap of sentiment to a gesture that hadn’t come with strings.

But she didn’t.

Still, the hesitation lingered. That pause on the forest floor, that glance behind her. It wasn’t nothing. Neither was her fixation with that one page in his notebook. The one she always returned to, even when she pretended not to care.

He pushed her when he could. Not obviously. Not to provoke collapse. Just enough to test for signs of movement. She didn’t respond to kindness—softness made her defensive. What worked was confrontation. Sharp edges. The flare of instinct.

If he wanted to know where her head was, he had to poke the bear and get out of reach before she took his hand off.

He didn’t know what he was doing.

Not really.

There was no plan, no endpoint. He was just buying her time. As much as he could. Forcing her into silences long enough that she couldn’t run from her own thoughts. Couldn’t avoid whatever was waiting in the corners of her memory. Her behaviour. Her choices.

Because there’d come a point when the luxury of self-examination would run out.

And he wanted her to get there first. While she still had the space to choose something else. Before it was taken from her again.

He knew better than to assume longevity. Nothing about this was guaranteed. Not their freedom. Not their location. Not even the shape of the enemy. One of them had kept him running for six months, and he still checked every mirror, every alley, every silence. The other—he didn’t even have a name.

Peace was a temporary lie.

And he didn’t have the arrogance to believe it would last.

At the gas station, Bucky paid cash for a roll of electrical tape. No questions, no receipt. Just a nod and the smallest possible interaction.

He pulled off the highway a few miles down. Found a stretch of roadside flanked by scrub brush and no streetlights. The kind of place no one would stop unless they had to.

He got out, knelt at the bumper, and set to work.

He’d clocked a car during the drive—same make, same model, close enough in colour. All he needed was a few black lines and the suggestion of a different numberplate. The alterations were crude, slapped on in low light, and wouldn’t survive even the laziest police inspection. The paint didn’t match. The tape peeled at the edges.

But it would blur the search.

One more thread for HYDRA to follow into a dead end.

That was the game. Not staying hidden—just staying misfiled.

As long as they stayed one page ahead, they had time.

*

It was midday by the time they found the department store.

She’d woken a few hours earlier—eyes wide, breath elevated, limbs tense beneath the oversized hoodie. Her head had snapped toward the back seat like she expected someone to be there. HYDRA, maybe. Or a memory she hadn’t escaped. He didn’t ask.

She hadn’t spoken, either.

He couldn’t tell if she’d recognised that she’d let her guard down—trusted him, however unconsciously, to keep watch—or if the dream she’d surfaced from had done more damage than she wanted to show. Either way, her mood had soured like fruit left out in the sun. Sharp, silent, unapproachable.

So he gave her something to want.

Training.

The parking lot was half-full, enough to give cover, not enough to slow them down. He pulled into a spot at the edge and cut the engine. The car gave a relieved wheeze as it powered down, and for the first time since they'd taken it, he let himself sit still.

“Lesson one on fitting in,” he said, tapping the wheel with a single finger. “These big stores have everything you need. Cheap. Current. Easy to blend.”

This one was especially large. He scanned the entrance, the foot traffic. Parents, teenagers, an elderly couple unloading a walker from the trunk. No one would remember them. Even if they noticed, the memory wouldn’t last. That was the trick—slip into normal, let the noise of life drown out your details.

Still, they looked like hell.

Their clothes were stiff with old sweat and hay dust, streaked with mud, and worn down to their travel bones. Bucky figured he had one more day—maybe two—before someone mistook him for a drifter instead of a day labourer. Her appearance was worse. Not just because of the grime, but the fit. Her clothes hung off her in a way that drew the wrong kind of attention. Sleeves cuffed, ankles bunched. Four sizes too big, like they’d been pulled from someone else’s drawer and thrown at her in the dark.

Because they had.

He didn’t let himself think too hard about the impression they gave.

But it hovered anyway.

He knew what it looked like.

The age difference. The silence. The way her shoulders curled in while he did the talking. He could feel the shape of it before anyone said a word.

Trafficker. Handler. Buyer.

He hated the taste of it.

And in some sick, twisted way, it wasn’t wholly inaccurate. He had taken her. Pulled her out of one world and into another. Removed her from one kind of captivity and delivered her into something not quite freedom. He could pretend the difference was motive—that he was trying to save her—but that didn’t mean she was safe.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

She sat beside him, silent, her gaze fixed through the windshield. The faint smear of lipstick still clung to her mouth—blurry at the edges, uneven where sleep had softened the imprint. It looked like something a child might wear after sneaking into a mother’s makeup drawer and dozing off mid-play.

He hadn’t pushed her today.

Now was a good time for silence. She followed easier when defiance meant speaking. When the alternative was interacting with him, she defaulted to obedience.

He reached across her to the glovebox.

She tensed—slightly, but he saw it. The twitch in her shoulders. The way her eyes snapped sideways, reading the movement before she could stop herself.

He slowed. Opened the compartment deliberately. Pulled out the napkin and held it up so she could see. Her gaze tracked it, the space between her brows drawing tight.

Then, without thinking too hard, he reached up and caught her chin in his grip.

Her reaction was the same as it always was. Rigid spine. Breath held. Not fear, not quite—but something practiced. Trained.

His stomach sank, just a little.

He hadn’t expected better. But part of him—quiet and stupid—had hoped.

He lifted the napkin and wiped the colour from her bottom lip. Careful. No pressure. His metal hand held her steady, but it was his flesh fingers that moved. Slow, precise.

Her mouth stayed slack. No resistance. No participation.

Just blank compliance.

He shouldn’t have noticed. Shouldn’t have lingered. But the warmth of her skin beneath his touch hit him harder than he liked. She was soft. He’d forgotten that—what that meant. What it implied. How it wasn’t incompatible with violence.

All women were soft.

Even the ones who crushed windpipes with their bare hands.

He thought of the suit. Its hypervigilance. The way it curled around her body like a second nervous system. He couldn’t blame it for its hesitancy—not anymore. Now that he’d touched her himself.

Her eyes stayed on his. Unblinking. Not defiant. Not afraid. Just distant.

She wasn’t there.

She was letting it happen.

And that absence—that compliance—cut deeper than the resistance he’d come to expect.

He exhaled through his nose. Folded the napkin in half. Tucked it into his coat pocket. Released her chin.

“Come on,” he said, already reaching for the door handle.

She moved the moment he did.

No hesitation.

Inside, the store was too bright. The light overhead was fluorescent, flat and humming. Artificial in a way that made Bucky’s skin crawl. Everything was too loud, too sharp. Rows of overstocked shelves. Gleaming white tiles that caught every motion. Nothing to hide behind. Nothing natural.

His ears prickled.

They’d spent too long in the shadows. Too many days off-grid, soaked in soil and blood and silence. Reentry into civilization felt like stepping into a spotlight with a rifle trained on the back of his skull.

From the look on her face, she felt it too.

She stayed close as they passed through the automatic doors, her steps falling just behind his. Not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel her body heat even through the layers of fabric. He knew it wasn’t attachment that kept her tethered—it was reflex. Her only frame of reference for how to exist in public was proximity. Stay close to the asset handler. Don’t attract attention. Let him decide.

However uncomfortable that was for both of them.

He guided her toward the nearest display—a mannequin in a denim jacket and floral-print skirt. The surrounding racks were cluttered but broad enough to offer options. A curated scene. Feminine, ordinary. Perfect.

He could leave her here. Let her choose. Handle the other essentials while she sorted through shirts and shoes and maybe something soft enough to pass for real.

Though it had been quite some time since he’d last bought a woman underwear.

And under very different circumstances.

That thought was still turning over in his head when he caught sight of how she was standing.

Still.

Too still.

She hadn’t moved from where he’d left her. Not a shift of weight. Not a glance around. Just rooted to the spot, eyes blank, posture locked like she was waiting for an order.

She did that sometimes. Less often now, but still enough that he noticed. Usually, he let it ride—wanted to see if she’d move on her own, make a decision, engage. But here, in this place, under this light, her stillness looked less like self-control and more like malfunction.

No one else stood like that.

Normal people fidgeted. Tilted their heads. Looked down at price tags or around to see who might be watching. They scratched their necks, blinked too fast, reached for their phones.

They didn’t stand like statues awaiting activation.

She didn’t know that.

And until this moment, he hadn’t realized how obvious it was.

Bucky glanced around. No one was watching them—yet—but there were a few shoppers in the next section. It wouldn’t take much. A lifted chin. A glance in the wrong direction. One second too long.

Her silence stretched.

He wanted to give her space. Let her think. Let her choose. But the longer she stood like that—frozen, unreadable—the more conspicuous it became.

He reached for her wrist.

Light pressure. Firm enough to guide without forcing. She let him move her—too easily. No resistance. No curiosity. Just motion.

He drew her toward the closest rack and used his other hand to splay her fingers, positioning them against the nearest garment. Cotton blend. Soft enough. Neutral.

“Just feel,” he said, low, pitched to her ear. “Doesn’t matter what it looks like. Pick something you like.”

She turned to him sharply, brows tight.

Like he’d spoken in another language.

And maybe he had.

Because what did like feel like to someone who’d never been offered the luxury?

He gave her nothing else. No prompt. No fallback.

And in the stillness that followed, he watched her disappear behind her eyes—retreating inward to some place he couldn’t follow. Her hand remained on the fabric, unmoving, her fingers held in a loose approximation of touch.

He shifted, subtly, positioning himself between her and a pair of women passing by. Shielding her from view without making it look like he was doing anything at all.

He didn’t want to rush her.

But this wasn’t supposed to be this hard.

Then—movement.

Small. Almost imperceptible.

Her fingers curled.

Not around the first garment, but through it. She brushed the fabric once, then shifted to the next hanger. Then the next. Slow. Detached.

She wasn’t looking at colour or cut. Only texture.

Just as he’d told her.

It wasn’t decision-making. Not yet.

But it was motion.

Better than nothing at all.

Bucky let her continue, watching the slow rhythm of her fingers move from fabric to fabric. He exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair.

This was harder than he thought it would be.

He wasn’t built for this.

Neither was she.

And that was the part he couldn’t stop circling—how the hell were they supposed to keep doing this?

Before the thought could settle into something heavier, he stepped away. Gave her space. Crossed to the men’s section with no particular focus, just motion. Thumbing through racks, eyes half-engaged.

He picked up a hoodie by reflex. Neutral colour. Good condition. Practical.

And stopped.

The words circled back to him—his own, only minutes old.

Pick something you like.

He let the hoodie fall, the hanger swinging back against the rail.

His eyes caught on a dark red henley tucked between two discounted flannels. The cotton had been manufactured to look broken in—softened edges, slightly faded, pre-wrinkled to imply use. It wouldn’t last under stress. Not the best material. But something about it caught.

He ran his fingers over the fabric. Slow. Testing the weave. The buttons were smooth, rounded. Tactile. Familiar.

It felt like the undershirts they used to wear beneath their army uniforms. The good ones. Before the cold set in. Before the war devoured comfort.

It wasn’t just familiarity. He liked it.

Maybe.

The decision didn’t sit where it usually did. It wasn’t utility. It wasn’t camouflage. It was something quieter. Lower in the chest.

A want.

So he took it.

Added a pair of jeans. A leather jacket. Less thought went into those—neutral pieces to round it out. He wasn’t here to reinvent himself.

One choice was enough for today.

He moved through the aisles with more purpose now. Picked up a few packs of underwear—neutral cuts, plain colours, nothing flashy. Just enough. He gauged her size by eye alone, careful but not precious. Her frame was slight, compact. She wasn’t built to draw attention. Her breasts were small, and he hated that he knew that, but he picked up a bra for her anyway. Perhaps she wouldn’t wear it, but he could give her the option.

Then he turned back to where he’d left her—

And she was gone.

His stomach dropped, cold and hard.

His feet moved before thought could catch up. Shoving past racks, eyes scanning too fast, hands flexing like they might catch her outline in the air if he looked hard enough.

This wasn’t tactical.

This wasn’t hunting.

His pulse pounded in his throat—choking. Unslowed. Untamed.

No, no, no—

He stopped beside an older woman bent over a candle display.

“Have you seen a woman?” he asked, the words clipped. “Young. Dark hair. About this tall.” He held up a gloved hand to her exact height.

The woman blinked. Took a half-step back.

His urgency, his presence—it was too much. Alarm bells rang in her body language. He didn’t care.

“No. No, I haven’t—”

He was already gone.

Another aisle. Another face. Same question, same height. Same answer.

His voice was too sharp, too fast. His limbs moved with a twitchy volatility that drew attention. Eyes were turning now. Customers clocking the man with the mismatched gloves and frantic stare. He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe.

HYDRA wouldn’t have been stealthy—they’d have made a mess. But they weren’t the only ones looking.

Had she bolted?

Had something snapped?

Was he tearing through a department store while she walked barefoot down the road?

Would he turn a corner and find a body crumpled in a dressing room—no explanation, just a mess of limbs and silence?

His mind swirled. No answers. Just variables. Just fuck.

Shit. Shit—shit.

And then he saw her.

Across the store. Still.

She wasn’t speaking exactly—but she wasn’t not speaking. Her posture was patient. Too patient. The kind she used when dissecting something. Watching the woman in front of her with clinical focus. Not just cataloguing words, but gestures. Mannerisms. Cadence. Like she was storing the entire performance for later playback.

“Jesus Christ—”

He didn’t think.

He moved.

“Grace.”

It came out sharp. A bark. The first name that rose to mind and he fired it like a weapon.

Her head snapped up. Eyes wide.

The employee turned toward him. Waiting. Expectant.

He swallowed hard. “Don’t wander off,” he said—steady, quieter than the panic still hammering in his chest should have allowed.

He wasn’t shaking.

But he wasn’t far from it.

Adrenaline still surged under his skin, too loud in his ears, too sharp behind his eyes. He forced himself to breathe through it. To slow the churn. To appear normal.

He turned to the employee, offering a tight, practiced smile. “Sorry—she’s not used to big stores. We’re from the country.”

He nearly added something about a horse kicking her in the head. It was tempting. Just absurd enough to land. But he let it go.

The woman’s expression softened immediately. Relief washing through her features now that she’d been given an explanation—however flimsy—that made the strange exchange make sense. She smiled at them both, small and understanding, then turned to leave.

Bucky caught the breath she exhaled as she passed, like her body had been braced without knowing it.

He didn’t watch her go.

He looked at her instead.

She was studying him now. Not concerned, not contrite—just observing. Watching the tension still coiled in his jaw, the dilation of his pupils, the aftershocks of what she didn’t yet understand had happened.

“You’re drawing attention,” she said flatly.

His molars ground together.

Yes. Thank you.

Very astute.

He dragged a hand down his face, rough over the stubble-turned beard at his chin. Tried to shake the images still cycling through his mind—the dressing room. The blood. The miles of highway. Her vacant body. Her vacant eyes.

He hadn’t even realised how loud his heart had been until it started to slow.

“I thought you’d—”
He stopped. Rolled his shoulders, trying to shake the tension that had crawled up between his shoulder blades and locked into place. Now wasn’t the time. He didn’t want to fight. Not over this.

“What’d you pick?” he asked instead.

The words came rough. Uneven. The calm wasn’t there yet.

She didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at him. Long and deliberate. Still parsing. Still cataloguing. He had no idea what she saw in his face—or what she was looking for. Whether she was deciding if he was weak. If the panic meant something she could use.

Then, finally, she moved.

Lifted the item draped awkwardly over her arm. Held it up by the hanger. The fabric unfurled in an uneven roll, stretching nearly to her knees from where she stood.

It was a man’s sweater.

Burgundy. Thick wool. Oversized.

His first reaction wasn’t comprehension—it was confusion. It short-circuited everything else.

“That’s… not really what we’re looking for.”

Her brows pinched.

“But you said—” she began, then corrected herself. “I like it.” She gave the word weight, emphasis. “It feels… warm. Soft.”

Warm.

Soft.

He didn’t know why the words hit him the way they did. Like he’d been sucker-punched in a place he didn’t know he’d left exposed.

It wasn’t what he expected. Not from her. Not as a selection criteria. But it made sense. Of course it did. Comfort was alien to her. Warmth wasn’t abstract—it was sensory. Tangible. A threat, sometimes. A novelty, always.

He let out a slow breath. Reached for the sweater and took it from her with more care than he meant to show.

Because it mattered.

Because it shouldn’t, and it did anyway.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the women’s section she’d somehow wandered out of without him seeing. “I’ll help you find something.”

*

Given the attention they’d drawn in the department store, Bucky didn’t risk a repeat performance. He drove them to another gas station down the highway—anonymous, dim, nowhere near the city limits—and pulled in without a word.

It was the kind of place that felt forgotten. Flickering fluorescents casting a blue-grey pallor that somehow made everything look dirtier. Sun-faded posters peeling from the walls. A cooler humming like it might explode. Overpriced energy drinks lined up behind cracked glass. And a bathroom key chained to a block of wood so absurdly large he half expected it to be the strongbox, not the key to one.

He changed fast.

Faster than usual.

Still hadn’t shaken the dread from earlier. Still not convinced she’d be outside when he came back.

But she was.

Standing near the car. Motionless. Still in the same oversized hoodie, though her eyes flicked up the moment he stepped into view.

He handed her the key.

She took it—without a word, without a sound. Not so much as the brush of knuckles. Her fingers curved around his in a way that missed him entirely. Not by accident.

It was too clean. Too precise.

He hoped it was deliberate.

He leaned against the car as she disappeared into the building, arms crossed over his chest. The cool bite of metal sank through the thin cotton of the henley and into his ribs, sharper than it should’ve been.

He noted it, vaguely.

Didn’t regret the choice.

Didn’t think too hard about why.

He kept his eyes on the road.

The sun was sinking low, casting long shadows across the lanes. Traffic had thickened—commuters inching home after long shifts, telling themselves they’d stop for gas over the weekend. Just a few more minutes. Just enough time to crack a beer and forget about the day.

Bucky couldn’t remember what that felt like.

Wasn’t sure he’d ever really had it.

And it didn’t seem like something waiting for him on the other side of all this.

There weren’t many outcomes that included him still breathing. Even fewer that included a future he’d want. But he thought about it sometimes. He had to. Just to keep the noise at bay.

He didn’t want to drift forever. Town to town. Border to border. Waiting for his number to come up. If he was going to indulge fantasy, he wanted something solid. Quiet. His.

Somewhere to put in the work and see it give back.

A farm, maybe.

Far enough out that no one asked questions. The kind of place where strangers didn’t stay strangers for long. Where he could hand out watery stew and threadbare clothes to people who needed them. Turn a blind eye to odd names and stranger histories.

He let himself have it—for just a minute.

Then the sound came.

A low, guttural snarl. From the other side of the gas station door.

He didn’t move. Just exhaled through his nose, eyes tilting up toward the sky, watching orange clouds drag across the wind-swept blue.

He knew that sound.

Heard it before—when she fought the suit. When she tried to force it off her skin with nothing but fury and the strength of her will. That blend of frustration and panic that sounded less like a woman and more like a wounded animal.

He should leave it.

Give her space.

Let her win or lose on her own terms and return to the little scrap of future he’d just imagined.

But Bucky Barnes had never been good at staying out of it.

And when it came to her—

Why start now?

He pushed off the car just as she let out a strangled whine.

He pictured red welts again. More jagged scratches raking down her skin where she’d clawed at herself in frustration. The suit responded to panic, and she had no patience. That was a bad mix.

Yeah. He couldn’t let that keep happening. She healed fast, but they had to check into a hotel before midnight, and it was hard to play normal when you looked like you’d wrestled a lawnmower.

“You good?” he called.

Silence.

Then, clipped and venomous: “This confounded contraption is both impractical and needlessly difficult to apply.”

He frowned.

During his time as the Winter Soldier, he’d dressed himself more often than not. He’d been trained to configure equipment across half a dozen uniforms, weapons hidden in layered pockets, buckles, magnetic seals. Complexity wasn’t the issue.

It was a bra.

“What?”

The lock clicked.

The door swung open—and then slammed shut behind him.

She’d yanked him inside.

His back hit the wood with a hollow thump, her fist curled in the front of his shirt. Her glare was all fire and fury, and it landed squarely beneath his collarbone.

He blinked at her.

For a half-second, his brain misfired. She’d been exhausted. Standoffish. Bristling with repressed rage for six days straight, and not once had she laid a hand on him. He’d pushed. He’d prodded. But not like this.

This wasn’t an attack.

He went to swat her hands away—and froze.

She was half-dressed.

Of course she was. Why was she always half-dressed?

Her torso was bare save for the sweater hitched around her shoulders and a bra—his purchase—clutched to her chest like a malfunctioning weapon. Lace and frustration held in tension by her white-knuckled grip. Her expression was unlike anything he’d seen on her face before: furious, desperate, and—God help him—pleading.

More than when she’d asked him to kill her.

His brain promptly exited the conversation.

Oh no.

No, no, no—

“Uh…”

He looked up. Ceiling tiles. Fluorescent hum. Anything but her.

“We talked about this,” he said, the words tumbling out like falling bricks. “Nudity. Social norms. Boundaries.” He made a vague, circular gesture between them like that would explain anything. “Remember?”

There was a pause he didn’t understand.

Not with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Not without being able to read her face.

But something shifted.

She was processing. Calculating.

And—God help him—he felt it.

Hope.

Had it clicked? Had she finally understood something? Let go of the posture, the pretense?

“Just—help me,” she hissed.

No. It hadn’t.

He closed his eyes. Jaw tight. “I—”

“Please.”

He froze.

It was a pathetic sound. Too small for her mouth. A word she had no training for, no script for—and yet it came out anyway.

He couldn’t ignore it.

Not from her. Not now.

The Soldat did not beg. The Soldat didn’t say please. The Soldat didn’t need anything.

They lied. They threatened. They took.

They didn’t plead.

And she was pleading.

His jaw flexed. He opened his eyes.

Forced himself to look at her face—just her face—and locked onto her eyes.

“That’s a new word for you.”

Her expression tightened into a glare. “Please,” she repeated—mocking now. Laced with syrupy falseness, like she was chewing the sound and spitting it at him.

Manipulation, then.

Probably.

Maybe.

Or maybe she didn’t know how to ask for help without wrapping it in barbed wire.

Bucky didn’t say any of it. He just sighed. Pinched the bridge of his nose.

He knew this much: the day she learned how to be human again—how to use softness, vulnerability, want—that would be the day she became truly dangerous.

But that wasn’t today.

Today she was just stuck. And frustrated. And holding a bra like it had personally betrayed her.

He relented.

Nodded once. “Turn around.”

She turned without hesitation, bare feet scuffing along the tilted floor.

He exhaled through his nose, letting his eyes trail down the line of her back. His jaw locked tight, forcing his mind to anchor itself in the task.

But his mind didn’t focus like that anymore. It hadn’t since the serum. Since the conditioning. Since they’d shattered the part of him that used to separate necessity from everything else.

She was strong. Lithe. Battle-built. But her skin looked soft in the gas station light. Softer than it should have been. The scars and synthetic discs were less visible here—blurred by shadow. Easier to ignore. Easier to forget.

His fingers twitched.

The straps were thin. The clasp, almost laughably small. He glanced at the glove on his metal hand, gauging its precision. Wondering if something built for violence could handle a task this delicate without tearing it apart.

He flexed the fingers experimentally. If he could load a round without crumpling the casing, press a detonator without snapping the circuit—then maybe. Maybe this was possible. And if he was going to learn how to do it, better to practice now. On someone just as hard to break.

He lifted his flesh hand, hovering it just above her shoulder. Close, but not touching. He didn’t know where to begin. There were no instructions for this. No angle that didn’t feel charged.

As always, she was perfectly still. No shift of weight. No breath. No visible discomfort.

But this wasn’t like before. This wasn’t a test of reflex or discipline. This wasn’t training.

This was something else entirely.

And he knew it.

She didn’t.

The strap had slipped—fallen down the curve of her arm.

He moved before thinking, metal fingers hooking through the loop before it could fall further. He told himself the choice had been instinct. That using the prosthetic created distance between him and the act. That it didn’t count.

But it must have touched her.

Because goosebumps erupted across her skin, rising in a ripple that chased the contact.

That was new.

He swallowed hard.

Slowly, carefully, he lifted the strap. Slid it back over her shoulder. His hand lingered longer than it should’ve—long enough to notice how light she felt. How warm.

He wondered what her skin would feel like beneath his flesh hand.

Her temperature. Her texture. Her reaction.

He raised it.

Smoothed the opposite strap with a drag of his knuckles—measured and light—adjusting it until it sat properly in place. Necessary, he told himself. Required.

She inhaled. Slow. Controlled.

His chest went tight.

She’d asked for his help. Pleaded, even. And this… this still felt like crossing a line.

But he couldn’t stop.

His hand moved with purpose, with care, but he still felt it—the brush of knuckles along the dip of her spine. The softness. The heat.

The fine hairs at her nape caught on his skin.

He had the sudden urge to trace one of the synthetic discs at the centre of her back. Curiosity, he told himself. A need to understand. He’d been cataloguing them since the first time he’d seen them.

But this wasn’t about intel.

His mouth was dry. And flooded. All at once.

He didn’t act on it.

He turned his attention to the clasp—small, finicky. Fiddly in a way that made him curse its design. It was harder than it should have been, and he was willing to concede that much to her.

He focused. Let the difficulty anchor him.

“Can you control it yet?” he asked, voice low, rough at the edges. He cleared his throat. “The suit.”

She turned slightly, hair slipping across his hands as she moved. He opened his mouth to mention it, but she beat him to it—dragging the strands forward over her shoulder, exposing more of the synthetic discs to his view. Her eyes met his over her shoulder, steady and unreadable, but there was something in them that looked suspiciously like disappointment.

So. No.

“I believe it will protect me. When it needs to,” she said, tone diplomatic.

Because admitting weakness would mean accepting it. Letting it live in her mouth.

Their eyes locked. Guarded. Level.

“That sounds an awful lot like trust.”

She stiffened.

“It’s a machine,” she bit back, though the words came quiet. Muted. She turned away again, holding her hair out of his path. The conversation was over.

He let it drop.

Fiddled with the clasp a moment longer than necessary—until it finally snapped into place with a click that felt louder than it should have in the tiny space. Final. Sharp.

Still, he lingered.

God knew why. He stared at the faint lines at the centre of her back—those strange circular ridges embedded in the flesh. Markers of something not quite human. Not quite machine.

Before he could stop himself, his knuckle lifted—flesh this time—and skimmed the one between her shoulder blades.

Light. Careful.

Intimate.

Stupid.

He realised what he’d done as it happened. Snatched his hand back like it burned. Fisted it tight.

“Okay,” he rasped. “You’re all done.”

Then he was gone—shoving the door open and stepping into the cool slap of night air, jaw clenched, lungs full of static, pulse pounding like a warning in his throat.

Before he did something worse.

Before he forgot what she was.

Or what he wasn’t.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The warmth lingered.

It clung to her skin, settled in her joints, filled the space between her ribs where cold had always lived. His touch—unlike the ones that had come before. Not forceful. Not prying. Not like the hands that had ripped and taken and claimed.

This one had asked. Offered. Aided.

And she had answered.

Now she sat stiffly in the passenger seat, the city ahead smearing itself into light. The stars above were fading, outshone by sodium and steel. The road was unlit, night folded around them like a shroud, broken only by the dull red glow of the stereo. The tyres hissed steady beneath them, wind threading through the seams of the car. It sounded like white noise. Like a heartbeat, if one knew how to listen for it.

She pressed her palms to her thighs. Fingers twitching. Flexing. Searching for the sensation again.

Her stomach dipped as the truth settled in.

She wanted more.

It was new.

Want. Desire. Impulse.

She didn’t ask for things. Didn’t covet. Had never wanted anything—not when she didn’t understand what it was she was reaching for. But in that moment—when his rough knuckle brushed her back, her skin rising to meet it without her permission, his breath warm against the curve of her neck—she had prayed.

For something nameless.

For more.

And he had given it.

As though he’d heard her. As though he knew what it was—and wanted it too.

She was aware of her ignorance. Hated the admission. But she couldn’t deny it. Not even to him. She didn’t know the rules. The sacredness of sight and touch. No one had told her they were meant to mean something. To signify trust.

They never had. Not for her.

Touch had always been function. Vision, tactical. Closeness, control. These so-called norms felt like a needless tangle of limits—things that got in the way of the mission.

But this wasn’t a mission anymore.

She wasn’t on one. That was what he’d been trying to tell her all morning. That if she treated this like any other assignment—calculating, target-driven, expendable—it would lead to failure. This wasn’t about delaying death. Her objective was survival. Claiming it.

When he’d pulled his hand back—sharply, as if she’d burned him—she wondered if she’d done something wrong. If the suit had punished him for some liberty she hadn’t realised he’d taken.

But no.

It had been still. Purring, almost. Content. It pressed soft and warm against her spine, cradling her from within, welcoming not just his help—but the tenderness behind it. His careful exploration. His choice.

She shifted in her seat, heat crawling up her throat, pooling behind her cheeks.

A strange kind of exhilaration bloomed in her chest—sharp, dizzying. It felt like a knife fight. That first rush when steel kissed skin and the red came quick—hers or theirs, it never mattered. Just the bite of it. The proof of contact. But this time, the bloodlust wasn’t there.

This time, she didn’t want to watch the light fade from his eyes.

She wanted more of it.

More brightness. More warmth. More of whatever it was that made her feel safe when he was near—

Safe.

Her breath stuttered.

She turned her head slightly, watching him from the corner of her eye. His hands were steady on the wheel. Jaw set. Eyes scanning the road with that same preternatural focus. Calm. Measured. Ready.

His heartbeat was even. Unshaken.

While her mind wandered—to warmth, to tactile things, to needless hungers—he remained fixed. Vigilant. In control. No distractions. She had slept, and he had driven. She had wandered, and he had searched for her.

She hadn’t pulled her weight since—well, since the beginning.

Since she tried to cut his throat open.

She’d once wondered if she’d gained an ally or taken on dead weight.

But it was her.

She was the dead weight.

Didn’t even know walking into public without clothes would draw attention. Didn’t know what ‘normal’ felt like. Couldn’t function alone. Not yet. That much, she understood now.

And in truth—though she hated admitting it—she wasn’t ready to be in a city again.

Not even with him.

But they were already here.

She understood now—what he meant about the inefficiency of the Soldat. It had taken days, bruises, arguments. But he'd framed it in a way she could finally grasp.

Which meant she had little to offer their partnership. Fewer skills than she’d assumed. No fallback. Just like before—only now the stakes were higher and the margin for error almost non-existent.

And this time, she knew it.

Self-awareness stung worse than failure. Worse than pain. It had been humiliatingly absent these last few weeks. Now, it lodged itself in her throat, sharp and dry.

She would have to trust him.

The thought made her jaw tense. But then—hadn’t she already?

For all her resistance, all her talk of independence, hadn’t she been trusting him from the start?

She’d given him countless opportunities to kill her. Leave her. Ransom her for his own freedom.

She hadn’t even thought critically—hadn’t even paused—before telling him about the man who once owned her. The one who would come looking. The one who would never stop.

She hadn’t protected the truth. Hadn’t protected herself.

The vibranium curled around her spine—sleeping, purring, content in the presence of the assassin beside her—was worth millions. Maybe more.

Men would kill for it. Men had.

And she’d handed it over. Sat beside him as though it was worthless. Like her life was worthless.

He hadn’t.

The realisation landed like a gut-punch. A tether wound tight through her ribs. Not to hold her upright—but to bind her to him. Inescapably.

Voluntarily.

Yes. Everything was about to change.

But Bucky had gotten them this far.

He’d saved her. Every day, in ways both obvious and invisible. He’d educated her, even when there was nothing in it for him—nothing to gain. She couldn't reconcile that. Couldn’t calculate what he stood to benefit.

She already owed him a life debt, if one believed in such things. But this wasn’t debt. This was something else.

Trust.

There was no other word for it.

She trusted Bucky.

With her life. With her freedom.

She exhaled, slow and quiet, and let her gaze drift to the window. The city lights flickered in the glass, a fractured reflection of her face. She tilted her chin, studied the line of her mouth, the shape of her expression.

And tried to smile.

Just a little. Just to see if she could.

It wasn’t right. Not exactly. But it wasn’t wrong, either. It didn’t feel like mimicry—an echo of something she’d seen and copied. It felt… sad. Uncertain.

Human.

Weak. But not in the way she’d once believed mercy was.

She swallowed.

The tension in her shoulders eased, but the storm in her head still raged—quiet now, but no less fierce. Something else was stirring. Something she'd tucked away. Now, in the dark, in the silence, it unfurled like a whispered truth she had no choice but to hear.

Bucky hadn’t just given her her life. Or a way to survive. Or the echo of a broken smile.

He had given her a name.

Grace.

It had startled her then. Lodged somewhere deep. Left an ache she hadn’t been able to shake.

Was this how it had felt for him, when Steve called him Bucky?

She remembered the page he’d written—half-sentences, scattered words that had meant little the first time she saw them. A catalogue of self. She wondered if they’d sound different now. If reading them again would bring clarity, not confusion.

It felt like a thread.

Old. Buried. Then pulled tight.

A longing for it to be true. A soul-deep fear it wasn’t.

Bucky had meant something to him.

Did Grace mean something to her?

She tested the weight of it in her mind. Rolled it across her tongue, silently. It didn’t sting. Didn’t bite. Didn’t taste of acid or ash. It didn’t feel like shackles at her wrists or leather in her mouth.

All she could focus on was what it wasn’t.

Which, she surmised, meant she had no history with it.

It was light. Free. New.

Sometimes, I wonder if it would’ve been easier to be no one at all. To have a choice. To start over. To be someone new.

So, I get to pick?

If you want.

Perhaps it was because the memory was recent—hers and untampered with, untainted—but it released her just as gently as the woman wearing the red lipstick.

She turned her head, her voice barely above a whisper—something small, something unable to be stopped. “I have a name.”

He glanced at her. Not confused. Just waiting. Listening. Offering her that same patience she had so often dismissed as weakness.

She could give it to him. But only if she wanted to.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Her pulse skipped, stuttered. She forced the words out before fear could clamp down again. Before her past could drag her back into silence.

“It’s Grace.”

His breath hitched. Just slightly. His knuckles tightened around the wheel. And then—slowly—a quiet exhale. A nod.

Acceptance. Without question. Without argument.

She turned back to the window. Let her gaze slip into the fractured shimmer of the city lights.

Her reflection in the glass looked different now.

Maybe it was.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The hotel room reeked of stale cigarettes, mildew, and bad decisions.

Bucky stood in the doorway, arms folded, eyes sweeping over the twin bed with its sunken centre and stained coverlet. The mattress sagged like it held secrets. The carpet was the colour of old coffee—flattened, patchy, worn to the threads. A flickering neon sign outside buzzed erratically, casting a jaundiced pulse over peeling wallpaper and yellowed fixtures.

He dropped the bag onto the bed and rolled his shoulder. Three days of driving on scattered hours of sleep had settled into his joints like rust. Normally, he’d avoid spending cash if he could help it, but they needed time. Time to blend. Time to think. Time to convincingly navigate city streets and locate and steal documentation without drawing attention.

This would do.

He’d slept in worse.

And thanks to the serum, they were both less likely to catch tetanus—or gonorrhoea, though the latter felt like more of a gamble in a place like this. He squinted at the bed again, nose wrinkling.

“Don’t say I never take you anywhere,” he muttered. The joke came from nowhere—old, automatic, like a phrase worn smooth with time. He’d said it before. He just couldn’t remember when. Or to who.

She stared at him, blank. The words passed over her without friction. He dropped his eyes and nodded, more to himself than her.

It wasn’t easy to forget what she was. What she was caught between. But some part of him held on to hope that something was happening inside her—something unspoken. Thoughts she hadn’t yet put words to. Or couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. Not yet.

She’d had a name for a day and a half now.

He hadn’t said it once.

He didn’t need to dig deep to understand why.

In the department store, he’d called her Grace on impulse—plucked the name from thin air. The first thing that sounded plausible to a passing stranger. A lie with just enough shape to pass for the truth. And she’d taken it. Let it settle. Played along with a silence that felt less like submission and more like… consideration.

But he hadn’t said it again. Not even in thought.

Because what if she changed her mind?

There had been other things to focus on. Bigger things. Things that scared him more than the name did.

And like a coward, he chose the easier question: Why Grace?

Not: What did I do?

If, after some time, she still wanted to be called Grace, he would honour it. But not before he was sure it was her choice—not just a desperate scramble to own something, anything.

Not that he really believed that’s what it was.

He hadn’t called himself by any of his names for months. Hadn’t felt entitled to them. He’d only started settling back into Bucky a few weeks ago—when a girl in a forest had looked him in the eye and asked if he had one.

It wasn’t that it was too soon. It just felt like more.

Like he’d named her.

Without thinking. Without offering her the space to decide. He’d said it on impulse—ripped it from the air without context or permission. A name borrowed from a girl he might’ve kissed eighty years ago. Something rushed. Careless, almost.

And names… names were sacred.

You weren’t supposed to be able to take them from someone.

But for now, she seemed content just to have one. Whatever content looked like for an ex-soldat standing in the filthiest hotel room Romania had to offer.

He dropped their supplies onto the bedside table. High-calorie bars packed with sugar and supplements. She’d picked a birthday cake-flavoured one, stared at the shelf like the choice mattered. So he’d followed her lead. Grabbed something other than water. He didn’t know why.

As it turned out, he preferred the water.

But now he knew that.

And he wouldn’t have, otherwise.

“This part should feel a little more familiar,” he said, turning from the table, hands settling on his hips.

She stood in that way she always did—shoulders squared, eyes flat, posture neutral. Like an android waiting on code. She didn’t need to summon the soldat. It was her default setting. Automatic. Unthinking. And it made his jaw tighten.

“We need to observe people in the local area without drawing attention. By design, we’re pretty generic—enhancements aside—so it shouldn’t be hard to find a few people who look like us.”

She nodded. Clean. Sharp. As if she’d received her mission briefing and was already running through tactical options from A to Z. Prioritise. Execute. Eliminate variance.

When she turned to go, he caught her arm.

“Stop,” he said. “We’re doing this my way.”

Her eyes tracked from his hand to his face, something flickering behind them—brief, unreadable. Like a system error. A hesitation in the programming. She pulled her arm back, and he let it go.

“What’s your way?” she asked. Not combative. Uncertain, but… open.

It landed like a blow. Too much power. Too close to giving orders instead of guidance. He ran a hand through his hair, buying time, trying to reroute. This wasn’t supposed to be control. This was supposed to be change.

She waited. Still. Patient. More than she ever had before.

“No killing,” he said finally. Phrased like a question. Half-plea, half-line in the sand.

She blinked. Unfazed. As if that were obvious.

He arched a brow.

“I won’t be sloppy,” she said at last.

It was the best he could hope for.

He nodded, exhaling slow. Good enough.

Could he trust her if things went sideways?

No. Not in a million years.

But that was his job—to make sure it didn’t come to that. If something felt off, if the atmosphere shifted even a fraction, he’d pull the ripcord. Get them the hell out and back on the road. They needed to leave the country, yes. But not at the cost of their freedom. Not if it meant getting separated.

He flicked his eyes toward her. “Alright. You got your lipstick?”

She tilted her head. Mechanical. Like the question itself didn’t compute.

“Trust me,” he said—instantly regretting it. His wince was audible. “I meant—”

“I have it,” she cut in, as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

She reached into her coat pocket and held the tube up between them like a contract. Smooth silver, rounded and familiar. He said nothing. Didn’t let himself think about the sight of her holding it, or the weight of the moment he wasn't sure was happening.

“Put it on,” he said instead, distracted by motion as he dug into the bag. “And here.”

He handed her the hairbrush.

She stared at it like he’d pulled the pin on a grenade.

He almost laughed. Almost.

With a sigh, he took the brush back from her and gave a lazy swirl of his finger, motioning for her to turn around. She hesitated—barely—then obeyed, still clutching the lipstick like a lifeline between her fingers.

Their eyes met in the mirror. It was cracked and murky, the silvering flaked at the edges, but clear enough to catch her reflection. And her trepidation.

“You start at the ends,” he said, keeping his focus on the words—easier than focusing on the act itself. “It doesn’t hurt as much.”

He smoothed her hair over her shoulders. It was almost matted, thick with road dust and long-neglected care. He worked the tip of the brush gently through the ends, slow and patient. It snagged. Dragged. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a sound. If it hurt, she didn’t show it.

Bit by bit, knot by knot, he worked his way upward. His metal hand held the sections clear while his right did the actual combing—smoother now, the lack of sensation oddly helpful. There was no muscle memory here. 

He caught the scent of her—earth, fuel, sweat, and something else buried beneath it all. Something warmer. Sharper. He wouldn’t call it pleasant. But it wasn’t unpleasant, either.

Her hair, when it wasn’t imitating a bird’s nest, was soft. Fine, almost. No gloss to it. He didn’t know if that was the dirt or something deeper, a kind of neglect that had sunk all the way to the root. Still, he could picture it clean. Brushed. Maybe a few months from now, when she could do it herself. When she understood how. He imagined her softening. Healthier. And found he wanted that image to become real.

He didn’t question it. Didn’t need to.

When the brush finally slipped through the strands without resistance, he held it out again—a silent offering.

“Your turn.”

Her fingers rose—paused. Something shifted in her eyes. A thought surfaced, then died. But she took the brush.

She was awkward with it. Fumbled. The mirror threw her off; she missed the section she meant to reach and tried to correct without looking. He saw the frustration blooming, sharp and fast. She was seconds away from either tearing it through the knots or hurling the brush across the room.

“You’re doing better than I did,” he offered.

It wasn’t entirely untrue. He’d once seriously considered shaving his off with a dull blade. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that the result would look accidental, not deliberate.

She met his eyes in the glass. Her grip eased. She didn’t smile—he didn’t expect her to—but there was something in the set of her shoulders, in the slight shift of her weight, that made him think: If she could, she might.

When she turned back to the mirror, she tried again. In earnest this time.

He winced at the sound the brush made, snarling through the strands. But she didn’t make a sound. She wasn’t gentle—not with herself—but she didn’t stop. She got the job done.

And she seemed quietly pleased with that—until she stepped back and saw the result in it entirety.

“It looks worse.”

It did.

“It’s just frizzy,” he said, reaching out and slipping the hair tie from her wrist. She let him.

He pursed his lips. Waiting for the day she’d flinch away from his touch, swat his hand aside. But it wasn’t today.

His fingers worked through her hair, gathering it at the nape of her neck. He wasn’t skilled—brushing and tying were the extent of his repertoire—but it was better than leaving her to manage on her own. The strands fought him, the angle awkward, and his hands clumsy from lack of practice. But eventually he managed something resembling a bun. A few loose pieces fell around her face. They looked intentional. He wasn’t about to say otherwise.

“Better,” she said, inspecting herself with a nod.

“Better,” he agreed. “But I’m afraid you’re on your own with the lipstick. Never found one in my shade.”

As he turned away, he thought he heard a small puff of air—soft, sharp, amused. A breath. Maybe the ghost of a laugh.

He didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The streets were alive with them.

Women.

They moved in pairs, in packs—rarely alone.

Some laughed with their whole bodies, tossing their heads back, eyes creased with joy. Others kept their chins down, shoulders hunched like they were trying to shrink into their coats. Some clicked by in heels, hips swaying in a way that was—objectively—distracting. Others wore sneakers and walked with purpose, hands buried deep in their pockets. Some had hair that fell to their waist, others cropped it short. Some wore trousers. Many wore dresses.

The variety was overwhelming.

A thousand different ways to be. To exist.

To be seen.

It was a veritable buffet of new information, and she studied them all.

The way their hair caught the light—tucked behind ears, twisted around fingers, pinned up or left wild. The way they moved when they spoke—some all limbs and animation, others precise and composed. All of them cloaked in something she hadn’t yet found a word for. A softness that felt intrinsic to the condition of being female.

The way they looked at men was just as varied.

Some flicked their eyes upward, lashes fluttering, laughter spilling out like ribbons—light, lilting, effortless. Others dismissed outright: a sharpened glance, a roll of the shoulder, a flick of hair that said don’t bother.

Some looked like they’d rather go toe-to-toe with a jaguar than speak to one.

She read them all. Not fluently, not yet. But her comprehension was growing. With Bucky’s watchful eyes tracking rooftops and exits for her, she had the space to sit back and see. To dissect. To learn. She focused on the mannerisms easiest to mimic. Tucked away the subtler cues for later.

Cataloguing. Memorising.

Every woman a case study. Every street a classroom.

Every gesture a bullet to be loaded in some future confrontation.

A café. A bar. A shopping mall. A street market. A station at rush hour. Each one a battlefield. Each requiring a different weapon.

And they were all laid bare before her now.

Bucky didn’t say much on their walks through the city. Head down. Cap low. Eyes always moving.

He knew what she was doing. Whether he approved of it or not, he didn’t say. But he gave her space to observe. To absorb. To change.

That was enough.

The ability to recreate another person from the street—seamless, forgettable—wasn’t a weakness. It was power. She’d never argued that. But she had underestimated the difficulty. The precision it took to look ordinary. The camouflage it offered wasn’t just social. It was strategic. It opened new vantage points, new angles. Blind spots. Escape routes.

A way in and a way out.

She wouldn't remain dead weight. Not to him. Not to herself.

She wanted to learn.

She would adapt.

She would disappear in plain sight—and be the most dangerous thing in the room.

*

The hotel room was small and always dim lit, even at midday. The heater buzzed like an old wasp caught behind the plasterboard. The water, mercifully, ran clean now—lukewarm at best, but no longer rust-brown or sharp with cold. It was a mild improvement on the first few days.

Today was the day she was going to wash her hair. Properly. Not just with water. Like she'd seen on the television.

She turned the miniature bottle over in her hands, its writing cramped and crowded like it had something to hide. Shampoo. The label was faded, but the intent was simple. Soap for hair. Logical. Mechanical. Nothing more.

Its twin sat beside it—Conditioner.

She studied it with less certainty. If the first was a cleansing agent, then what was the second? A sequel? A sealant? Did it reset something, or reinforce it?

The instructions offered little clarity.

Massage into clean, wet hair. Leave for five minutes. Rinse thoroughly.

Thoroughly. A subjective word. Until the water ran clear? Until the scalp burned? Until there was nothing left of her but red skin and floral residue?

She twisted the cap open. The scent struck her immediately—sweet, soft, artificial. Flowers. Not the real kind that bloomed in dirt and sun, but the kind that trailed behind women on busy streets. That clung to scarves, settled into coats, turned heads.

She sniffed the strands falling across her brow. They didn’t smell like that. They smelled like metal and effort. Like rain trapped beneath rooftops.

If this was part of the armour—if it helped her blend, disappear, survive—then she would wear it.

Even if it left her smelling like someone else entirely.

She stripped off her clothes, grateful to be free of the restrictive trousers that had left angry red tracks across her hips. She could see the outline of the button stamped into the soft skin of her abdomen, the waistband’s pressure imprinted like a reprimand. They itched. She scratched until it burned, and the relief was exquisite. The shirt had left no marks, just the memory of fabric, sweat, and containment.

Now in her underwear, she faced the mirror.

She’d seen images like this over the past few days. Women in advertisements wearing coordinated sets—lace and satin and silk that clung to hourglass curves, all confidence and polish. Their poses casual. Intentional. Their underwear had matched.

Hers didn’t.

The bra was better than nothing—plastic masquerading as lace—but there were hollow cups where fullness should be. The underwear sagged at the elastic, a size too big, a size too honest. She looked at herself without judgement, but with an almost forensic dissection. The differences were noted. Filed. Contextualised. Not shameful. Just data.

She could do better.

Her eyes flicked to the bra. She remembered the gas station. The fumbling, the frustration. The plea. The hands. She paused.

She would practice another time.

Then she peeled the garment over her head like a very tight, very stupid T-shirt and dropped it to the tiles with a scowl.

It, too, had left its mark.

The scratches she raked over the dented skin were bliss.

The water was warm now—barely—but it spilled over her shoulders in steady waves once she stepped inside the tub. The showerhead couldn’t be angled, rusted stiff into the wall, so she moved to meet it. A dance of positioning. A negotiation. But it worked.

She consulted the bottles again, reading them like a mission brief.

The shampoo frothed beneath her fingernails as she scrubbed it into her scalp. The motion was ungainly, foreign—but pleasant. Like resurrecting a muscle that hadn’t been asked to work in years. Her eyes fell shut unprompted. The rake of her nails across her skin sent shivers down her spine. She would have to cut them—they caught too often—but not yet. Not now.

The water turned grey as it spiralled down the drain. A slurry of dust, oil, and time.

So hair had to be washed regularly. Frequently, it seemed.

How inconvenient.

To be safe, she washed it again.

It lathered easier the second time. She felt it—that moment of success. The right kind of clean. She pulled a strand beneath her nose and inhaled. Flowers. Real ones. Red, thorned. She didn’t know how she knew that. Or what they were called.

She’d add it to her page in Bucky’s notebook.

The conditioner came next. It was thicker and creamier. The smell was stronger, bolder. Unapologetically feminine. It coated her fingers and softened everything it touched. She liked it immediately. She liked how her hair slipped between her fingers, how it tugged, caught, then yielded. She played with it absentmindedly, lost in the sensation. It felt… soft. Soft in a way she wasn’t.

She counted to three hundred under her breath. Then rinsed.

Thoroughly.

She assumed she had succeeded when the silkiness faded from her fingers but the scent lingered. Light and persistent. Just like the women on the street.

Her armour.

And for the first time, she wondered what it might feel like to be seen wearing it.

When she stepped out, steam clung to her skin like breath on glass. The bathroom had fogged to a milky haze, the mirror now opaque. She reached for the towel and slung it over her shoulders, unsure of what came next. The ends dangled uselessly until she bundled them into her fists—Bucky’s way.

She patted herself down, unsure of how thorough she needed to be, stopping once the dampness no longer dripped. Her hair soaked through the back of the towel and onto her spine, cool against freshly warmed skin. She mimicked what she’d seen him do—twisting the towel around the thickest sections and squeezing gently. It didn’t dry it fully, but it stopped the dripping. That felt like a small victory.

When it came time to dress again, her eyes landed on the bra she’d peeled off earlier. The sight of it made her jaw tense.

She didn’t want to put it back on.

The jeans, too, lay pooled where she’d left them, heavy and stiff from moisture. They had left angry lines along her hips—indentations that had lingered like accusations. She had been sleeping in them. They hadn’t made rest easier.

And she didn’t have to do things she didn’t like anymore.

So, she didn’t.

That left a new problem.

Bucky didn’t like it when she wasn’t covered. That much, she’d learned. But she hadn’t yet deciphered the rules he played by. He never explained them. Just looked away sharply, cleared his throat, handed her a coat, a towel, a sheet. Not anger. Not quite embarrassment. Something else.

She tried to make sense of the parameters. Out on the street, she’d seen plenty of women baring limbs. Midriffs. Clavicles. The air had been cold, but they hadn’t seemed to mind. Billboards showed women in just their underwear—posed, polished, confident. But always with the essentials hidden. Breasts. Genitals. That seemed to be the boundary.

The sweater covered her breasts.

The underwear covered what needed covering.

It should be enough.

And yet, her hand hesitated on the door.

She stood there, bare toes curled into the cracked tile, heart ticking faster than it ought to. She’d felt this before—tacky palms, a dry mouth that couldn’t swallow. The full-body instinct to brace, to make herself smaller. She sifted through it like she always did. Analysing. Categorising. This wasn’t fear—not of violence or punishment. Bucky didn’t punish her like that. Didn’t punish her at all.

It felt like something simpler. Stupider.

What if she was wrong? What if this wasn’t covered enough? What if he looked at her like she’d failed some invisible test?

The thought didn’t just unsettle her. It lodged.

And yet, she swallowed hard and did it anyway.

She opened the door and stepped out, barefoot, bare-legged, wearing nothing but the oversized sweater and the quiet conviction that she was learning. Whether or not she liked what she might learn from him today… remained to be seen.

Despite her earlier resolve, her pace slowed as she rounded the corner. The tentative pad of her steps softened into something cautious. Testing.

Bucky was on the bed, legs stretched out and ankles crossed. His jacket and shoes had been discarded by the dresser, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Even here—away from prying eyes—he rarely exposed the metal arm. But now, it caught the room’s dim light in dull glints as he turned a page in his notebook with the other hand.

Her eyes caught on it. She couldn’t have said why.

Something tugged in her stomach. It wasn’t painful or sharp, though it was decidedly unpleasant. And unfamiliar.

“Bucky?”

He didn’t look up right away. Her voice hadn’t carried anything urgent.

“Hm?”

She licked her bottom lip. A small motion she hadn’t been taught, hadn’t studied, hadn’t planned. She’d seen him do it enough to know she had picked it up from him. Too late now to unlearn it.

“This is okay?”

That got his attention. His brows pulled together as he looked up.

When his gaze met hers—when he saw her, just her, peeking around the door in nothing but a sweater and caution—something shifted in his expression. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. His eyes searched hers for a long moment before he finally nodded.

“For inside,” he said. “Yeah.”

She felt something twitch at the corner of her lips. A pull. Small. She didn’t know what it meant. Only that when it happened, his posture changed. He sat up straighter. His eyes widened just a little. He noticed. She didn’t.

She climbed onto the bed beside him. Settled.

The silence between them was quiet, companionable in the way they’d come to know, but it had an edge. Something unresolved. Something unnamed. Like the way the walls of the room pressed in or the heater buzzed—soft enough to be ignored but impossible to forget.

He turned another page.

She glanced down at it.

Not a sentence. Just words. Fragmented and seemingly unconnected. Useless to anyone but him. She hadn’t seen all of what she now thought of as his part of the book. Understood even less. Not from lack of trying. Not anymore.

This page was new to her.

“What are you reading?”

He let out a quiet breath through his nose. Not exasperated—just tired. Like he’d been waiting for the question all day and wasn’t sure if he had the energy left to answer it.

“I’m trying to remember,” he said eventually, smoothing a palm across the page like it might warm the ink into clarity. “Some things are… weaker than others. This one doesn’t want to come back.”

It could have ended there. It probably should have. But something behind her eyes pressed forward. An urge. Not for answers, exactly. But for something close. Something soft. Something else.

She knew almost nothing of her own past.

Listening to his, even in pieces—even in the smallest, most broken scraps—made the silence inside her easier to bear.

“What is it?”

A pause. Then, without comment, he angled the notebook so she could see the page better.

“I think it’s a day from before the war,” he said quietly. “I went to a carnival in Brooklyn. With Steve.”

His finger touched the worn edge of the paper, trailing down to where the name sat, half-smudged. She followed it with her eyes. The scribbled words surrounding it bloomed into something with shape, suddenly comprehensible when he gave them context.

“I spent three bucks trying to win a teddy bear for a girl called Dot.”

She frowned. “Why?”

He blinked. “Why what?”

“Why did you want to win it for her?”

A quiet chuckle left him. Dry. Fond.

“I don’t know. That’s just what you did at carnivals. If you liked a girl, you tried to win her something at one of the stalls.”

Her brow creased. “Why not just display your strength?”

“They had games for that,” he said, nodding with a small smile. “You could swing a hammer, ring a bell. But I wasn’t very good at those.” His mouth tilted. “Not back then.”

“So you wouldn’t win the teddy bear.”

“Well, they were rigged—and I knew that even then. But…” He exhaled, his gaze turning inward. “I liked her.”

His eyebrows lifted, head tilting slightly. “And I guess I thought she might put out.”

“Put out?” she asked, her head tilting in tandem, confusion flickering through her features.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said quickly, waving a hand. “Anyway—there was this other game. Air rifles. Shoot the little tin soldiers. I had a better chance there. I always had good aim.”

His voice trailed off. Eyes gone distant. The muscles in his face shifted, subtly at first—then all at once. The warmth in him faded, replaced by something flat and grey.

“I was always good at shooting,” he murmured. Not to her.

The quiet changed.

The air thickened with something invisible but unmistakable, pressing in around the edges. She folded her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, chin tucked into the fabric of the oversized sweater. She watched him. Studied the weight in his shoulders, the way memory hollowed him out from the inside.

She didn’t like the silence when it was like this. Didn’t like the way it reshaped his face.

She preferred him light. She was selfish for it.

So she tried. Her throat dry. Her heart beating just behind her tongue.

“If… if we ever go to a carnival,” she began, tentative, halting. “I would be far more impressed by your shooting. You can keep the teddy bear.”

For a beat, nothing. Then, a bark of laughter—low, rough-edged, disbelieving. His shoulders shook, but the tension bled out of them. He turned his head, eyes searching her face like he was seeing it properly for the first time in minutes. The look on his face made something uncoil in her chest.

“You got a deal,” he said, voice rough. And surprisingly warm.

He closed the notebook and leaned over to switch off the lamp.

Darkness settled in around them.

“Get some sleep, Grace.”

She lay back, curling into herself, knees tucked in tight. There was comfort in the position. A kind of containment. A memory of safety, even if she didn’t know where it came from.

But when she closed her eyes, all she could see was the way he’d looked at her—just before the light went out.

And it stayed with her.

It kept her warm, long after sleep took hold.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The city’s breath filled his good ear—brakes squealing, engines snarling, the murmur of too many voices layered atop one another like static. But he let it all recede, a trick he’d honed in the field: letting the noise become texture, nothing more than a hum beneath the signal he was tuned into.

His other ear held what mattered.

The comms were cobbled together from burner tech and scavenged parts—barely held together by copper guts and luck—but they worked. A live feed poured in from the earpiece: Grace’s voice, filtered through grainy compression, filling the private hollow of his skull.

This wasn’t her first mission. Not even her second. But it was the first time she was running point.

He listened as she laughed—soft, high, effervescent. Not her laugh. Not even close. It was lifted straight from the third episode of the reality show she’d binge-watched for hours, absorbing cadences the way other people absorbed languages. The breathy dip in her voice came next, sultry and deliberate, borrowed from a barfly who’d spent an entire night coiling herself around strangers like cigarette smoke. Across the street, Bucky watched as Grace tilted her head, twirled a strand of hair, let it fall in the exact rhythm of the hotel receptionist who flipped hers every time she glanced his way.

Every movement calibrated. Every glance a bullet. All of it a weapon aimed directly at the man seated beside her.

She’d learned. Fast.

Once she understood that mimicry wasn’t about mockery but survival, once she grasped that looking harmless was as sharp-edged as a spring-loaded blade, she’d thrown herself into the craft. Observation became study. Study became performance. And performance? Performance became power.

He hadn’t doubted her aptitude. Not really. But he’d questioned her willingness. Her ability to see the world as malleable. Her instinct to manipulate rather than confront.

She proved him wrong. Daily.

Grace never asked for feedback. Not once. But she watched him when she was unsure—subtle, searching, brief glances like sonar. He suspected it had something to do with the time he’d laughed—once—at her earliest attempt at a smile.

He hadn’t laughed at her again.

It hadn’t always been smooth. Especially when she’d first discovered flirting and practiced it on him. That had been… an experience. More threatening than enticing.

But he adapted. For her, he tried.

And now?

Now he watched her through the glass, a predator in borrowed skin. Playing her role so convincingly that even he had to blink twice.

It was theatre.

And the curtain was about to rise.

It was strange, watching her like this.

The veneer she wore was near-flawless now—giggling, preening, all fluttering fingers and feigned delight. And in the quiet recess of his mind, where honesty lived unjudged, Bucky could admit he didn’t like it.

Not this version.

He preferred the one that paced barefoot across hotel carpet, who squinted at shampoo bottles like they held state secrets. The one who got frustrated easily and didn't try to hide it. Who asked blunt questions without apology and received his answers with that same steel-eyed scrutiny. Even when they were half-formed. Even when they hurt.

That was Grace.

The good, the bad, and the infuriating.

She’d spent the last two weeks studying people—absorbing their movements, their voices, their masks—but she’d been selective in what she kept. She was learning to say no. No to mimicking everything. No to blending so fully she risked losing herself. With freedom came discernment, and it turned out she was particular.

She’d chosen which parts of the world to wear. And this girl—across the street, laughing into the shoulder of a man she fully intended to rob—wasn’t the one who curled beneath scratchy motel blankets each night. She wasn’t the one who asked if it was okay to wear a sweater and nothing else.

And that was the point. It didn’t matter if he liked it. This was survival. And she was getting good at it.

Her mark was textbook. Mid-forties. Confident. A tailored suit that had never seen a dry cleaner but spoke of custom stitching. She’d coaxed him off his seat with a comment about the tacky green paint on the bench and was now theatrically brushing his thigh, checking for transfer.

He moved as soon as she leaned in.

One step. Then another. A clean, accidental kick to the edge of the man’s satchel, just enough to send it skidding off the curb and into the mouth of the alley. He didn’t break stride. Didn’t turn his head. Just bent at the corner, scooped the bag up like it had always belonged to him, and vanished down the block.

A few turns, one street loop, and he met her on the other side.

She wasn’t even winded. Hair tucked behind her ear, hands in her jacket, pulse steady. Just a girl on a city street, walking nowhere fast.

“You’re getting good at that,” he muttered without looking, voice pitched for her ears alone.

“You always sound so surprised,” she replied, not breaking stride.

His lips twitched. He buried the smile in the collar of his jacket, the warmth of it something he wasn’t ready to examine.

They dipped into the lobby like shadows slipping through the cracks of a tired day. Grace offered nothing more than a nod to the receptionist—barely a flicker of acknowledgment. Bucky did the same, his mouth twitching into something that might pass for a smile. It didn’t land, not really, but the woman behind the desk softened anyway. She always did.

He wasn’t sure what she'd decided about them—something harmless, maybe. Some odd couple living off the grid, wrapped in mystery and trauma. The kind of story that earned discretion rather than suspicion. He could live with that.

At least if she liked him, she was less likely to notice the strange rhythms of their comings and goings. The changing bags, the different clothes. The fact that every few days they returned heavier than they left, always weighed down by something new.

Back upstairs, he dropped the satchel onto the bed and got to work. Grace crossed to the corner and pulled open the room safe, retrieving the stack of documents they’d already amassed—IDs, licences, passports, even fucking loyalty cards. It was almost funny.

If the man they'd picked was the right kind of vain—just the right blend of rich, careless, and useful—then—

“Got it,” Bucky said, lifting the passport over his shoulder.

She took it without a word, added it to the stack, then flipped through the details. It was clean. The photo passable. That brought them up to nine working identities between the two of them. Enough to leave the country five different ways.

Once he was sure the satchel was empty of anything traceable, he chucked it out the window. Three floors down, it landed with a soft thud on cracked pavement. Someone would pick it up within the minute and disappear with it. Either a street cleaner or a kid looking for luck. In Constanta, nothing went untouched for long.

Grace was already zipping her duffel. Most of what they owned could fit inside it, aside from the small backpack he’d carry. She gave the room one last scan, scooped up the remaining birthday cake protein bars, and straightened. She adjusted the strap on her shoulder and looked at him—eyes narrowed, jaw set.

He saw it immediately. The breath she blew out. The way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

She was nervous.

And, if he were honest, so was he.

This wasn’t just another petty theft or a back-alley vanishing act. This was an airport. Cameras. Security. Uniforms with eyes that looked too long. Pat-downs. Profiling. The absolute worst possible crucible for someone like her.

She’d never had to keep her act going for more than a few minutes at a time. Never had to do it with someone breathing down her neck. Never under surveillance that thorough, that tight. She was perfect in flashes—controlled bursts of mimicry—but this was going to be hours of constant, seamless deceit.

“We don’t have to do this—” he started, unsure whether he meant it.

“We do,” she cut in. Her voice didn’t waver.

He didn’t argue. Not out loud. But in his chest, there was a part of him still spinning through other options. A cargo ship. A week-to-week trek across Eastern Europe. Sleeping in forests and abandoned barns. Maybe they’d survive it. Maybe they wouldn’t. Either way, it would take too long. And it wouldn’t get them far enough. Not far enough to be free.

Her silence waited for confirmation. When he didn’t offer it, she turned and opened the door.

He gave the room a final glance. The stained mattress. The flickering light. The heater that never quite worked right. They’d spent nearly two weeks here. It had been a safehouse, a holding pattern, and—for better or worse—a home. He didn’t feel sentimental about it. But he did feel something.

He shut the door behind him.

Downstairs, they checked out. Paid in cash. The receptionist didn’t even blink. They thanked her. She smiled. He wondered if she’d remember them in a week. A month. He hoped not.

Their lives—everything they had—was packed into one duffel and a backpack. It wasn’t much. It was enough.

They stepped out into the street, toward the next stretch of survival. Toward an airport. Toward something that looked a little too much like hope.

The car was still there. That, in itself, felt like a miracle.

Bucky tossed the bags in the back, metal hand gripping the edge of the roof for leverage as he ducked into the driver’s seat. The engine gave a reluctant roar, grumbling through the cold like a smoker stirred too soon. It shuddered twice, then settled. Just like always. Still holding together, barely.

The vehicle had taken a beating—more miles on it than it was ever built for—but it hadn’t failed them yet. He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of guilt for trusting it more than most people.

He nosed them out of the alley and into the narrow city streets, weaving through the afternoon traffic. Constanta always moved like it was late for something—agitated, fast, unforgiving—but he was used to that kind of rhythm. The kind that didn’t wait for mistakes.

The highway was just ahead. Beyond that? The airport.

Grace sat beside him, not making a sound.

His knee bounced restlessly whenever the clutch wasn’t engaged, fingers drumming across the worn leather of the steering wheel. He wasn’t new to nerves, but they hadn’t wrapped this tight in weeks. The airport was a minefield. Cameras. Security. Schedules. One misstep and the whole operation would collapse inward. HYDRA may have scattered, but they still had eyes. Still had people willing to act on instinct. And the problem with being internationally recognisable was that sometimes all it took was one glance.

Beside him, Grace didn’t flinch. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t breathe wrong. Her stillness was so complete it set his teeth on edge—not from annoyance, but because he’d come to learn what it meant.

She wasn’t relaxed. She was conserving energy. Locking it down for later. The way an animal might lie silent in the grass until the moment it pounced.

He didn’t interrupt it. Didn’t try to speak.

A few miles out from the airport, she shifted. He didn’t look. But he felt it—just the flicker of movement at the edge of his vision. The subtle bend of her arm. A faint metallic gleam.

The lipstick.

She pulled it from her jacket, turned it once in her fingers, then reached forward and opened the glovebox. She placed it inside with surgical care. Quiet. Gentle. Like it meant something. Then she shut the compartment, sealing it with a soft click.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t need to. Whatever that gesture was—a farewell, a promise, a ritual—it was hers. And something about it made his chest ache.

If that lipstick ever found its way back to its owner, it would be carrying a story in its casing.

The engine thrummed beneath them. The white lines of the road bled past like arterial pulse. He eased into the final stretch toward the airport—

Thud.

Low. Repetitive. Faint enough to ignore for a second too long.

Bucky’s brows pinched, scanning the street ahead, mirrors, horizon—trying to place it.

Thud. Thud.

Then he saw it.

A shadow swept across the tarmac, long and fast and wrong.

Chopper.

Too low. Too fast.

His gut seized an instant before his brain did.

He dropped gears. “Hold on,” he said, already veering off the main road.

Because if that bird was flying at street level, it wasn’t patrolling.

It was hunting.

The sun flashed—just once—off a cold edge of steel.

Bucky’s eyes snapped to it. The chopper had banked hard, slicing into view above the overpass, door wide open, the dull black of a mounted gun catching the light. He didn’t think. He moved.

The wheel ripped under his hands as he swerved across two lanes of traffic. Horns screamed. Tires shrieked. A second later, bullets tore through the air behind them—sharp cracks and metallic pings echoing off concrete. The windshield fractured with a sound like ice breaking on a lake, spiderwebbing out from the corner where a stray round had punched through the edge.

Grace sucked in a breath, sharp and instinctive.

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, jerking the wheel again, pulling them off the highway and onto a ramp without checking the shoulder. The car fishtailed slightly, tires struggling to grip the curve, and then they were slamming downhill toward the mouth of a tunnel.

Cover.

The darkness swallowed them whole a second later, headlights flaring white in the sudden pitch. It was a gift—short-lived, but a gift.

He checked the mirrors.

Not a hope in hell.

Two SUVs followed like predators locked to blood, their high beams slicing through the dark, engines snarling as they gained ground. Too fast. Too clean. HYDRA-built. HYDRA-funded. HYDRA-blooded. These weren’t rent-a-thugs with wire taps and a vendetta—these were ghosts, and they had never stopped hunting.

His jaw locked.

Beside him, Grace was deathly still. But not from panic. She was readying. Bracing. Her hands were clenched white on the dash. Pale, mouth tight, eyes sharp.

Not frozen. Not lost.

Just deciding.

HYDRA hadn’t broken her.

“I think now’s a good time to have a conversation with your suit,” Bucky said, voice low, controlled. Not calm—he didn’t feel calm—but commanding. The kind of tone he’d learned on long-forgotten battlefields. The kind of tone that held the line.

Her jaw twitched. The lines between her brows deepened.

“Because we’re going to need it.”

And they would.

Because whatever this was—it wasn’t just a retrieval.

It was a fucking execution.

She gave a single, jerking nod. “Working on it.” Her voice was tight, brittle, like it might crack under the weight of her frustration.

Nothing.

Not a whisper of movement. No flicker across her skin. The suit stayed dormant—silent and useless.

With a guttural noise, she reached into the backseat and ripped her duffel apart at the seams. No time for closures. No patience for finesse. Her hand closed around the hilt of the knife—cold, steel, reliable—and she was already moving.

“You brought a knife to an airport?” Bucky snapped, voice high with disbelief.

She didn’t answer. Just threw back the sunroof.

“Grace, no—”

“They’re too close,” she said, calm as the grave.

Bucky’s jaw locked. “Which is exactly why you’re not going out there—”

But she was already climbing, limbs braced across the centre console, moving like she’d made the decision minutes ago and was only now catching up to it.

“Grace,” he snapped, one hand shooting out to seize her elbow, dragging her half-back into her seat. “That is not a plan.”

She twisted, tore free of his grip with more strength than he’d expected. Her face was thunder—no wildness, no frenzy—just a clear, white-hot determination. Her eyes burned as they met his, unwavering.

“Then come up with a better one.”

He had no answer.

“Drive,” she said.

It wasn’t a suggestion. Her voice had turned to ice. Commanding. Detached.

He barely had time to curse before she hauled herself upward, knees braced on the seat, body folding like it had been trained to climb out of moving vehicles. She rose into the open air without hesitation.

He couldn’t stop her. Couldn’t reach. Could only tighten his grip on the wheel and keep the car from rattling itself off the concrete as gunfire shredded the space behind them.

A second passed. Then another.

Then he saw it.

The back of her shirt lifted in the wind—and something shifted. A whine of metal, subtle but distinct, as five panels along her spine snapped outward and locked into place. Smooth. Seamless. That gunmetal gleam—alive now, crawling across her shoulders like a second skin. Hungry for war.

She’d activated it.

And not by calm. Not by control.

She’d thrown herself headfirst into danger, dared it to kill her. And the suit had answered.

A rush of relief cut through him sharp and sudden—but it vanished just as quick. Another crack of gunfire split the air, and instinct took the wheel.

He swerved hard, tires shrieking, flung his arm across the seat to catch her before she was pitched. His palm flattened over her hips, metal against metal, pinning her down as the car rattled on its axis.

There was a tap—a quiet, decisive click—and he let go.

She dropped back inside with a grunt, her chest rising and falling fast. A thin, surgical slice marked her cheek, blood already drying along the curve of it. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and said, too even:

“I don’t think I like that method.”

He stared at her, wide-eyed. "No, I don’t either,” he growled, snapping his gaze to the mirror.

They were gaining. Fast.

“We can’t outrun them. And we’re about to run out of tunnel—”

The gleam of a mounted barrel caught the light in the rearview—tracking their rear wheels.

“Take the wheel!” he barked.

Before she could reply, he’d already thrown the driver’s side door open. The wind tore through the cabin like a hurricane, roaring in his ears as he hooked his good arm around the frame and used the other to punch.

The projectile hit mid-air, and his fist met it like a battering ram. It detonated with a snap of heat and shrapnel against the tunnel wall, a bloom of concrete and fire so close it tossed the car sideways on a shockwave. Rubber screeched. Metal groaned.

Grace didn’t scream. She was already in motion.

He saw her slide into the seat, hands locking on the wheel, and for the briefest moment he felt that unfamiliar flicker—that trust. Then he was climbing.

Onto the roof. Into the wind. Into the place he hated and knew too well.

His breath sawed in and out. His muscles were already moving, already remembering. His body dropped the man and picked up the mission.

The Soldier cracked his neck. Adjusted his stance.

And went to war.

“Keep it steady!” he bellowed over the roar, smacking his fist against the roof—a signal, not a request.

He saw her head jerk in the mirror, scanning road and rearview. Her foot eased off the accelerator just enough. They drifted, letting the SUV creep up beside them. He didn’t need to say now.

Bucky moved.

He launched himself from one hood to the next, boots slamming down with enough force to dent the frame. The jolt climbed his spine like a lightning strike, but he was already braced, knees bent, hands finding grip in the grooves of the metal.

The driver looked up—and that was the last clear moment he had.

Bucky’s fist shattered the windshield in a single, concussive blow, glass exploding inward like a mine going off. The vehicle veered, overcorrected. He went with it, momentum carrying him forward through the shrapnel storm.

The passenger raised his rifle, eyes wide with panic, barrel swinging toward Bucky’s face—

The shot went off.

Bucky’s left hand took the hit—metal absorbing it with a screech of torn jacket and smoking metal. The right hand was flesh and fury, closing around the man’s throat before he could fire again.

He squeezed.

He felt cartilage flex, then fold. The wet pop of bone giving way. The man’s eyes bulged. There was no time for a second shot. No need. The gun dropped from numb fingers to the floor as blood surged warm and slick down Bucky’s wrist.

He yanked him forward, deadweight now, spine folding grotesquely through the busted window frame. The body hit the pavement and rolled under.

The driver shouted something—a name maybe—before lunging with a knife. Too slow.

Bucky caught the man’s wrist mid-swing. Twisted. The snap echoed like a branch breaking. Then he buried his metal fist in the side of his head.

The skull struck glass with a sickening crack. Blood spidered down the inside of the window.

And just like that—silence.

The SUV was his now.

He dragged the unconscious driver out with a grunt, the deadweight thudding against asphalt before vanishing under the rush of tires behind. Sliding into the seat, Bucky’s slick fingers left smears across the wheel, but he didn’t feel them. The Soldier had no need for tactility. He only needed control.

He checked the mirror.

Grace was still with him. She hadn’t bolted. Her knuckles clenched around the wheel of the sedan, locked like a vice. She hadn’t panicked. Hadn’t screamed. But she hadn’t moved either.

He gave her the nod—tight, pointed. An unspoken command.

She didn’t respond.

“Grace!” he barked.

No movement.

“Jump!”

Nothing. Her body twisted, bent toward the back seat, arms reaching awkwardly down. A flicker of confusion became clarity the moment he spotted it—the bag jammed beneath the rear footwell.

His bag.

The notebook.

His throat locked. Rage flared and dissolved in the same breath. He wanted to scream at her. Goddamn it, Grace. Wanted to kiss her for being so stupidly human.

She got it loose.

In one smooth haul, she slung it over her shoulder and braced, her foot planting hard against the door. One clean kick—hinges shrieked and the door flew free, spinning like shrapnel across the tunnel. The final SUV behind them swerved to miss it, scraping sparks against the concrete barrier.

And she was moving.

She calculated the leap in a breath, eyes scanning the shrinking gap between the two vehicles. Then—momentum. Her boots hit the edge of the door frame and she launched.

Hands caught the roof rack, fingers clamping tight, metal groaning under her grip.

Bucky threw the door open and leaned out to grab her—

Gunfire.

Glass shattered around them, a deafening spray of violence. Bullets sang off the SUV's frame, white-hot flashes ricocheting into the tunnel wall. He lifted his arm, shielding the opening with the full width of the metal, ringing like a bell under impact as he protected her head.

Grace hauled herself through the storm, lips drawn tight, teeth gritted against the pain. She dropped hard into the driver’s seat, landing with a grunt, blood smearing wet across her metal collarbones from the fresh scrape on her cheek. Her grip went to the wheel like she was taking command of a weapon.

Bucky slid over into the passenger seat without hesitation, relinquishing control even as he scanned for the next threat.

“Where’s your mask?” he asked, already clocking the discarded gun in the footwell.

He snatched it up, checked the magazine. Full. Safety off. Good.

Grace didn’t look at him. Her eyes were locked on the road, pupils blown wide from adrenaline. “I think we should count our blessings it came out at all,” she muttered. “Not point out its shortcomings.”

The edge in her voice wasn’t meant for him—it was for the thing embedded in her spine. The sentient thing that should have covered her the moment they saw the chopper. That hadn’t. That she didn’t trust. Not fully. And clearly, not without cause.

Now wasn’t the time to diagnose.

Bucky smacked open the glove compartment.

His breath caught.

Grenades. Thermite charges. A handful of magnetic discs with red stencils that meant engine kill or everything kill. Somebody had loaded this SUV for the end of the world.

He could work with that.

With efficient hands, he pulled a few free, dropping them into the passenger seat beside him, lining up his options like a surgeon prepping tools.

“You keep us steady,” he said, low and calm. “I’ll handle the rest.”

He punched the sunroof out.

The first blow dented it. The second sheared it loose. A third sent the fractured panel skyward—wind catching the steel, flinging it off into the blur of speeding concrete and sky. He rose into the slipstream like something forged from war: rifle in hand, back braced against the rim, knee wedged against the headrest.

He had the driver in his sights as the SUV burst out of the tunnel into raw daylight.

The glare caught him full in the face.

One heartbeat.

Then—pain.

The shot slammed into his bicep like a hammer, tearing a chunk clean through. His teeth snapped together, breath ripping from his lungs in a hoarse grunt. The rifle steadied in his grasp.

Focus. Now.

Three sharp shots.

The windshield spiderwebbed, blood fanned across the glass. Passenger slumped.

The chopper roared overhead—too high now, blocked by the overpass. Seconds, maybe.

Then it hit. Hard.

The car jolted sideways as the second SUV rammed them from behind, metal screeching on metal. The rifle tore from Bucky’s hands, vanishing into the rush of road and wind.

Another shot.

Lower. Brutal. His thigh lit up with searing fire. He buckled—collapsed—into the vehicle, the roof rushing past overhead as he crumpled into the footwell.

Hot. Wet.

The pain was feral. Wrong. His leg was soaked, sticky with blood that pulsed out faster than he could think. He blinked hard, fumbling with his fingers, reaching—God, fuck—he couldn’t even see the wound, just the warmth of it, the way his jeans clung like wet bandages.

Pressure. Stop the bleeding.

He tore his sleeve, clumsy now, hands shaking. Vision flickering at the edges. Each breath came shallow and sharp, like air had been weaponised.

He was losing it.

And then—

“Bucky.”

Her voice, breaking through the wind and static. Sharp. Terrified.

He turned his head. Or maybe it just rolled.

Grace’s face hovered above him, a war-mask of dread and blood and disbelief. Her mouth was moving but the words lagged behind the sound.

“Stay with me.”

Her hands were already on him. She didn’t know what she was doing, but she was trying. She was always trying.

“Don’t you fucking dare leave me!”

He wanted to answer her. To say something that meant I’m here. That he wasn’t going to bleed out in a stolen SUV on a goddamn highway with HYDRA closing in.

But his thoughts were syrup, his eyes glassing, breath slowing.

He tried.

He really did.

But the dark came for him anyway—creeping in from the corners like water under a locked door. The last thing he felt was her hand on his face. The last thing he heard was his name. Not Soldier. Not Asset.

“Bucky!”

And then—nothing.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Her bottom lip trembled. Then his head dropped, limp against the seat.

“No. No, no, no—”

She slapped him. Not gently. His jaw slackened with the motion, mouth parting. Nothing. Not even a twitch.

Her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears, louder than the wind, the engine, the thudding rotors of the chopper up ahead. The rearview showed the SUV closing in—smooth, relentless, as if they had all the time in the world. And maybe they did. Bucky didn’t.

The air stank of blood. Not the cold tang of violence she was used to, but something richer. Hot, human. And it was everywhere. Pooled against the centre console, soaking into her clothes. Him.

She had no weapons. No plan. No way out.

Her throat clenched. Maybe she could keep running. Just long enough. Maybe she could let him bleed out and save him the worst of it—let HYDRA find a corpse instead of a prize. That was the best she had. Her best case.

She nearly choked on it.

No. That wasn’t a choice. That was surrender with prettier packaging.

She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want him to die. She didn’t want to go back. She didn’t want to trade one grave for another. Even now, even here, she wanted to live. For herself. For him. For the slow, stubborn warmth that had started to take root between them and hadn’t yet grown teeth.

But what could she do?

This wasn’t one of his lessons. This wasn’t a strategic retreat, or a well-aimed elbow. This wasn’t even about her fists.

Her breaths came sharp and shallow. She blinked hard, trying to see. Trying to make the mirror mean something other than the dark blur of their end gaining speed behind them. Her fingers clawed at the wheel, vibranium nails splitting the leather.

She looked to Bucky again. He didn’t move.

“Wake up,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Wake up. Wake up!”

Still nothing.

Something in her broke. Split down the centre like scorched metal. She struck the wheel with her palm—once, twice, again—until the ache pulsed up her arm and into her throat.

“I hate you,” she choked. “I hate you—hate you for this—for leaving me to do this!”

The sob punched through her teeth. She bared them, half-feral. It wasn’t fair. He was supposed to be the one who knew what to do. He was supposed to carry them through this. Through everything.

The SUV slammed forward again, nudging their bumper like a death knell.

She wanted to blame him for this. For teaching her how to want something. For dragging her this far and then daring to die before the end. For making her care—enough that it hurt like this.

She wanted to blame him. But it was her own face in the mirror. Her hands on the wheel. Her heart still beating.

And HYDRA closing in.

Then she saw it.

A dull grey puck half-tucked beneath his hip—round, familiar. One of the magnetic grenades. He must have set them out, ready to use, and never got the chance.

Her fingers closed around it before her mind had fully caught up. Cold metal. Heavy promise. The last card in a deck of nothing.

Tears blurred her vision. She wiped them away with the back of her hand—blood smearing across her cheek in a hot streak. It didn’t matter. This did. She knew how this worked. She remembered the weight, the way it hummed just before detonation. The whine of the casing when it locked on.

A chance.

Her eyes narrowed.

And the mask snapped into place with a hiss, shielding her face in the same breath that her spine straightened.

Grace checked the mirror once.

Then tossed the grenade.

The wheels screamed as she slammed her foot to the floor, hurling them forward just as the device spun across the asphalt, skittering like a coin flipped by fate.

One second.

Two.

Boom.

The fireball burst underneath the SUV like the devil’s exhale—flames chewing up through the chassis as the back end lifted clean off the road. Grace didn’t wait to see the rest. She threw herself across Bucky’s body, hands fisting around the bolted seat as she crushed him under her weight.

A moment later, metal met metal.

The SUV clipped the back of their car, and the whole world twisted.

The first roll wrenched the seatbelt from its casing. The second tore the side mirror off. Somewhere between the third and fourth she bit through her lip, blood flooding her mouth as glass and steel screamed in unison.

The car spun like a flipped—a streak of black chaos tumbling across tarmac.

Debris flew. Windows imploded. Tires shredded. Her ribs ground against something solid, the suit absorbing the worst of it, but every nerve screamed. Her fingers locked around the seat frame, the only tether she had, and still she pulled Bucky tighter into her. Wouldn’t let him go. Couldn’t. His weight drove into her chest, their heads cracking together once—twice.

Still, she didn’t let go.

Not even when the roof crumpled in.

Not even when her ears rang so loud she couldn’t tell if she was screaming or not.

And then, silence.

The spin ended.

The car settled. The roof flattened. The sky, sideways. The windows blown out. Her vision swam.

The SUV lay belly-up, wheels still twitching like the legs of a dying insect. Smoke curled through the shattered windows. Her vision tilted sideways. Gravity hadn’t caught up yet.

She couldn’t hear anything. Just that high, keening ring in her ears—like something inside her had cracked open and wouldn’t close again. Her head throbbed, her breath stuttered, and Bucky’s full weight was pressed across her chest.

Too heavy. Too still.

His blood soaked through her clothes, warm and slick, matting her hair to her scalp. It reeked of iron and heat and finality. She could feel it seeping down her collarbones, dripping between her shoulder blades. Her hands slipped as she pushed at his shoulders, trying to shift him, just enough to breathe, just enough to crawl out from under.

“I’ll come back,” she whispered, her voice shredded from screaming. “I’ll come back, I promise. Just—stay alive. Please.”

The broken window tore at her as she crawled through, jagged glass catching and scratching at the suit. It hissed in response. She fell out onto the asphalt, knees buckling beneath her.

Up.

She forced herself up. Her hands braced against the wreck, arms shaking as she climbed to her feet. The world reeled. Her stomach churned. She swallowed it down.

The chopper circled overhead, its rotors booming like war drums. Somewhere ahead—or maybe behind—the second SUV smouldered, its engine coughing smoke into the air.

HYDRA was still coming.

Her spine straightened.

Her vision honed.

No fear. Not now. Not anymore.

She ducked back through the shattered door and ripped one of the grenades from beside Bucky’s head. Her fingers curled around it—tight, certain.

She looked at her reflection in the twisted side mirror. The blood. The wreckage. The silent figure inside.

Then she rose.

Knees first. Then legs.

Her body screamed. Her ribs ached. But she stood again.

The chopper was dipping lower now, the thump of its rotors shaking the air like a war cry. Wind kicked up in gusts, tugging at her hair, dragging the scent of blood and burning rubber through her nose.

She turned—once to the wrecked SUV, once more to the smouldering ruin behind her. The one she’d flipped. The one that had likely killed the men inside.

Good.

That was where the weapons would be.

She moved.

The grenade in her fist was already primed, its smooth metal cool against her palm. Her thumb flicked the pin free. Her shoulder screamed as she drew back and threw—high and wild, not for precision, but purpose.

It didn’t hit.

It wasn’t supposed to.

That kind of miracle belonged to people with gods on their side.

But it did what she needed: startled the pilot, drew the gunner’s eye, forced the chopper to bank left with a jolt of turbine panic.

And Grace ran.

Her boots barely kissed the asphalt, body low, the wind biting hard against her face as she tore across the empty stretch. Gunfire ripped through the air behind her—a burst, then another, then a stuttering roar. Bullets shrieked past her head, punched holes through her sleeves. Some bounced. Some burned. The suit took the brunt of it, and for once, it didn’t hesitate to protect her.

She dropped hard into a slide behind the wreck, the impact slamming up her spine, rattling her ribs until she tasted copper. Her breathing was shallow, staccato. One of her ribs was definitely fractured—maybe more—but there wasn’t time to count the breaks.

The chopper circled overhead, cutting wide, keeping her pinned.

She didn’t stop. Didn’t lose faith. She waited for the beat of its shadow to shift across the wreckage—left, then left again. Out of line. Out of sight.

She crept forward, flanking the twisted frame of the SUV until the fractured window caught the light.

That was her in.

Grace hauled herself up, boots scraping against torn metal. She shoved the glass aside with her forearm and slithered inside.

The stench of burnt coolant and blood turned her stomach. The driver was slumped over the wheel, jaw slack, throat torn wide open in a brutal red grin.

She didn’t waste a second on him.

The rifle was wedged under the seat—she felt it before she saw it. Her fingers found the grip, yanked it free. Then the ammo belt. She rolled the agent’s cooling body and tore it from his chest, slinging it across her own.

No hesitation. No misstep.

The grenade launcher was intact.

Her hands moved with surgical speed, muscle memory rising to meet the moment. The cylinder clicked into place, familiar and obedient.

One breath.

Two.

And she was ready to kill them all.

She dropped to one knee, boots skidding across shattered glass and oil-slick tarmac, the butt of the grenade launcher settling heavy against her shoulder. Gunfire rained down—sharp, angry. The rounds pinged off her exosuit in deafening clinks of metal on metal, each impact reverberating through her bones. She felt every one of them. Every fucking one.

But she didn’t move.

She adjusted her aim, tilted her chin.

And fired.

The grenade screamed through the sky, a hiss of smoke trailing behind it like the fuse of something biblical. It punched into the chopper’s underbelly, and a split second later, the explosion rocked the air. One of the shooters was flung from the open door—limbs flailing, mouth wide around a scream she didn’t hear. She didn’t watch him fall.

Her hands worked without thought, reloading. Breathing. Resetting.

"See you in hell," she muttered, not even raising her voice. "Assholes."

The launcher bucked against her chest as the second round tore through the air. It struck higher this time—clean through the side door. The chopper convulsed. Flames bloomed. Metal shrieked as it twisted against itself, rotors catching air like a wounded animal.

It spun.

Tipped.

Then plunged off the highway like a dying god, vanishing into the water below in a roar of steel and smoke. The impact echoed like thunder. Metal screamed. Then—a silence so complete it rang.

Grace stood.

Her chest heaved under the weight of the kill. Smoke licked at her suit. Blood dried across her knuckles in spidering cracks.

The mask peeled back, vanishing into the port at the base of her skull. Her eyes—bare, wet, and burning—swept the frozen highway. Every car was still. Windows fogged by breath. Faces pale and watching. No one moved. No one dared.

She didn’t care.

Because this was her chance.

She could run. She should run.

If HYDRA backup was en route—and they were—then they’d reach him before any ambulance. That was the whole point. That was what she’d been sent to do. This mission, this mess, this man—it was always about him.

The thought bloomed slow in her mind. Her limbs still shook, the burn in her muscles collapsing inward into something hollow. Adrenaline no longer sharpened her focus. It just sat there. Bile in her throat.

She could vanish now. Slip into the crowd. Disappear into smoke and metal and someone else's wreckage.

Let them have him.

Save herself.

She had the skills. She’d earned them. Paid for them in blood and bone. She could be free.

Her hands curled into fists.

She dropped the grenade launcher and ran.

Glass crunched underfoot as she closed the distance to the overturned SUV, the stench of smoke and blood hanging heavy in the air. He was still there. Still too pale. Too still. She crawled into the wreckage on hands and knees, a shard carving a line across the side of her neck. She didn’t feel it. Didn’t care.

“Bucky.”

Her fingers found his throat. There. Faint. Thready. But beating.

“Come on, Soldier,” she whispered, brushing his hair back from his clammy forehead. “Not today. Not like this.”

She twisted, searching. The glove box gave with a metallic snap and her hand closed around a squat, battered emergency kit. Not enough. But something. She stuffed it into his backpack when she finally spotted it, half-crushed in the footwell. She slung it over her shoulder.

Then braced.

His weight fell against her with the graceless dead-weight of the unconscious. Blood smeared her collarbone, her jaw. She grunted, teeth clenched, and hoisted him up over her shoulder.

“Sorry,” she rasped, breath catching. “I know this hurts. Just hold on.”

She staggered across the asphalt, scanning the idle cars for one with its door cracked open. There—driver gone, interior still warm. She shoved it wider and eased Bucky inside, laying him across the back seat like something sacred and broken.

He didn’t stir.

“Stay with me,” she begged, knuckles white as she reached under the dash. The wires came loose with a snap. She twisted them together. Sparks. Then the engine flared to life.

She looked up. No silhouettes. No muzzle flares. No whir of propellers overhead.

But they’d come.

They always came.

And now she was alone.

Her hands settled on the wheel. Her jaw set.

He’d saved her.

Now it was her turn.

*

Her hands slipped on the wheel.

Vibranium-coated palms, tacky with drying blood, slicked uselessly against the leather as she fought to keep the car straight. Bucky’s blood. It was everywhere.

It soaked her jeans, streaked down her arms, pooled in the seat seams, congealed at the base of the gear stick. It painted the dashboard in smears where she’d braced. It spattered the rearview mirror. She could taste it in the back of her throat—metallic and wrong, like she’d been chewing copper wire and didn’t know how to spit it out.

Every breath from the backseat rattled through the silence like a countdown.

She didn’t look. Couldn’t. Not again. Not yet.

If she looked, she’d see how still he was. How grey. She’d see the dead weight of his limbs, the way his chest rose like it didn’t want to. She’d see the wounds—still leaking, still open. Still him, unguarded and human in a way that made something primal inside her want to scream.

Bucky didn’t bleed like this.

He didn’t lie down. He didn’t lose.

He moved—always. Forward, hard, fast. A one-man battering ram of bone and steel. A hurricane in a tactical jacket.

And now he was dying in the back seat of a car she’d hotwired with shaking fingers, and the only person who could stop it was her.

A trial by fire.

Grace was used to killing people, not saving them.

She forced out a breath. Wiped her face with the back of her hand, leaving a fresh smear across her cheekbone. It stung like acid over the shallow cuts blooming across her skin. Minor. Irrelevant. The ache in her ribs was sharp, but manageable. She’d been hurt worse. Much worse.

She was intact. Combat-ready. Ninety percent capacity, easy.

Useless.

None of that helped him now.

The car fishtailed slightly. She overcorrected. The tires squealed. Her jaw clenched until her teeth ached.

Think.

Focus.

What did she need? What did he need? How much time had she bought them, and how much more could she steal?

She took the next exit without blinking. She didn’t know where it led. She didn’t care. As long as it was away. As long as it was fast.

There would be cameras. That was fine. Let them come. She’d fight them again if she had to. She’d kill if she had to. But not yet.

Right now, she had to keep him alive.

What would Bucky do?

She could hear it—his voice, dry and gruff, like it was gospel. Don’t fight. Run. Always run. Bullets and bodies were the worst-case scenario. Dead men made headlines. Headlines made trails. And trails got you found.

It was a little late for that.

The air still stank of cordite and blood. She was driving a rolling crime scene with a corpse-white super soldier bleeding out in the backseat, and the chopper she’d downed hadn’t exactly vanished without a trace. By now, HYDRA would’ve dispatched the vultures. Local law enforcement would descend like clockwork. Cameras would be scrubbed, witnesses silenced, the entire block turned over like a crime drama set piece.

They’d be closing the exits. Every highway, every airport, every bus station.

And Bucky wouldn’t survive that long.

Another breath rattled loose from him. Wet. Shallow. Just barely there.

Too close to call.

She needed distance. But more than that—she needed time. And time didn’t live in motion. Time meant hiding. Time meant stillness. And stillness meant staying inside the city.

But where?

Not the hotel. The receptionist might’ve been indulgent to the odd bruise or bloodied knuckle, but hauling a half-dead man through the lobby would end that leniency real fast. Hospitals were worse. Suicide. Too many eyes, too many questions, and a paper trail that would get them both killed before he’d seen a surgeon.

She needed somewhere undocumented. Isolated. Quiet. She needed four walls and no neighbours. A place where Bucky could bleed and breathe and maybe—maybe—not die.

Think, damn it. Think.

What did she have?

A stack of IDs, but only half the pairs. No vehicle registration. A wad of cash she couldn’t spend. An emergency kit with barely enough gauze to mop the blood off her boots. And the man who had taught her everything she knew was dying two feet behind her.

She gripped the wheel tighter. Her knuckles ached beneath the suit.

There had to be somewhere. There had to be something.

A flophouse? A squat? A construction site? She ran through every option that came to mind—every half-forgotten hideaway they’d passed on foot, every crumbling ruin of the Constanta underground—but none of them would hold for more than a night. Not with the heat coming.

She needed somewhere they wouldn’t be found.

Somewhere no one would think to look.

And fast.

What did they do last time HYDRA was breathing down their neck?

She gritted her teeth, the pressure of panic spiking again—tight around her ribs, sharp behind her eyes. There was nowhere remote in the city. No way to disappear in the open. No back alley or alleyway squat that would mask the blood-slick trail Bucky was leaking across the seat. He couldn’t pass as anyone or anything but what he was. Not like this. Not soaked in red. Not with the arm gleaming like a flare in sunlight.

There was no train station safe enough. No checkpoint lenient enough. No crowd thick enough to lose them.

Panic closed its grip, vice-tight. Her mind began to splinter under it—shards of thought cutting in too many directions at once. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t see past the single, spiralling thought that if she failed here, if she lost him—

No. She couldn’t go there. Wouldn’t.

He wasn’t going to die. She refused to let him. She wasn’t going to end up alone.

She forced herself to breathe. One inhale. Shaky. Jagged. Shallow. She let it out through clenched teeth, forcing it into rhythm. Slowed her heartbeat from a gallop to a stomp. Slowed her mind. Just enough.

And a memory surfaced.

Half-forgotten. One of the nights they'd stayed up past the static hum of silence in that rented room with its crusted windows and stained sheets. Sleep had evaded both of them, and to keep the ghosts from crawling through the cracks, she’d filled the air with questions. Quiet ones. Curious ones. Anything to keep the chair from flickering behind her eyes.

She’d asked what he did after the Potomac. After he pulled Steve from the river. After he walked away from the rubble of who he used to be.

And he’d told her. Voice low. Distant.

He drifted. With a half-working mind and a stolen wad of cash, he’d wandered the coast like a ghost—no plan, no heading. He just knew he had to get out of sight. Had to stay alive. He broke into a house. Abandoned for the season. Summer place along the water. Empty because no one visited in winter. It had power. A roof. A bed. Quiet.

It had been safe.

She blinked, the memory hitting with force.

That was it. That was something.

She reached across, snatching the crumpled map from where it was wedged between the seat and centre console. Her fingers shook as she unfolded it over the wheel. Ink smeared. Edges torn.

Water.

She needed water.

Her fingers left streaks of blood like ink across the creased map, smudging coastlines, blackening road names. Then—there. A beach. Five miles, maybe less. A speck of blue at the edge of the city grid, where the tangle of streets thinned and gave way to sand.

It was a long shot.

But long shots were all she had left.

The drive blurred. Pavement disappeared beneath them in a smear of grey. Grace didn’t register the turns she made, the lights she ran. The only thing she saw was the rearview mirror—and the body slumped across the back seat.

Bucky’s breathing was shallow now, each inhale a whisper. His face was drained, leeched of colour, lips grey and slack. She kept talking to him, voice rasping against her own wrecked throat, not because she thought it would help but because silence might kill her first.

“Don’t you fucking dare. You hear me?” she muttered. “You don’t get to die now. I’ll dump your corpse in a ditch. I’ll let seagulls shit on your grave.”

No response. Just the gurgle of breath and the too-still rise of his chest.

She gripped the wheel tighter, blinked hard. “I will leave your body in this car to rot in the goddamn sun, I swear to Christ.”

The coastal road turned quiet, then desolate. The buildings changed—no longer tenement blocks and concrete high-rises, but low pastel homes lined up like teeth in a maw. Candy-coloured. Sickly. Too bright to be real. Blues and yellows and pinks softened by the ocean air, their shutters drawn, driveways empty. Not quite abandoned. But seasonal. Transient.

Good. Let it stay good.

The sun was kissing the horizon, bleeding red across the clouds. In every window, lights flickered on—families, couples, the occasional lone inhabitant settling in for the night. She crawled the car along the edge of the curb, watching for the one thing she needed most: darkness.

A blue house. End of the row. No porch light. No glowing TV.

No sign of life.

She stopped the car out front. Killed the engine. The silence snapped around her like a trap.

Stillness didn’t mean safety. Absence didn’t mean abandon.

She stared at it, eyes narrowing, straining to hear something—anything—through the stillness. The hum of a fridge. A footstep. The telltale flicker of motion in a shadowed window.

Nothing.

But nothing wasn’t enough to move him on.

She checked the street again.

Still empty. No pedestrians. No dogs being walked. No idle cars creeping past. No fucking chopper carving the sky in half.

Good.

She tugged at the hem of her shirt, using what fabric hadn’t fused to her suit to smear away the worst of the blood. It was futile—dried flakes clung to her jaw, embedded in the creases of her knuckles, caught in all of the few crevices of the suit—but the ritual gave her something to do. Something human. Something besides thinking about the man bleeding out in the back seat like a gored animal.

She stepped onto the porch.

The blue house loomed above her, neat and silent. Too clean. Too empty. A brass knocker glinted in the fading light, polished by salt air and neglect. She ignored it, lifted her fist, and knocked.

Once. Twice. Hard.

The sound echoed through the house like a warning bell. Hollow. The report bounced off high ceilings, bare walls, cold tile floors. No answer.

She waited.

Then knocked again. Louder. Harder. The bones in her wrist jarred with the impact.

Still nothing.

Her stomach flipped, a cold roll of dread that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with the seconds ticking off Bucky’s life. She glanced around the street one last time—then squared her stance, set her shoulder to the door, and shoved.

The lock gave with a sharp crack, wood splintering in protest. The door swung inward on a draft of stale air and silence.

She stepped inside.

It smelled of dust and winter. Air that hadn’t moved in weeks. No perfume. No cooking oil. No rot. Just dry insulation and cold tile and long-settled stillness. She inhaled once. No mould. No decay. No underlying sourness that said human habitation.

She crept forward, bootsteps soft on the floorboards. The living room was clean but spare. A sofa wrapped in plastic. A coffee table bleached by sun through closed blinds. No photographs. No mail. No forgotten sweaters or shoes at the door. The fridge was unplugged. The cabinets were empty but intact. The bathroom mirror held no streaks. No handprints on the walls. No hair in the sink.

Vacant. Not abandoned. Just… paused.

She moved through the rooms quick and quiet, checking corners, opening closets. Half-expecting to find an elderly widow curled in a floral blanket somewhere. If she had, she wasn’t sure she could’ve stuck to Bucky’s rules. Not tonight. Not when it was this close.

But there was no one.

She turned a slow circle in the middle of the master bedroom, letting the weight of the quiet settle around her. No movement. No ghosts.

She nodded once to the silence, sharp and decisive.

This would do.

She went back to the car.

Bucky hadn’t moved. Not even a twitch. His head lolled against the window, chin stained with his own blood, jaw slack with the weight of unconsciousness. He looked like a corpse already—greyed lips, bloodless skin. Too still.

She swallowed hard, forced the swell of panic back down her throat where it belonged, and opened the door.

“Alright,” she breathed, curling her fingers beneath his arm. “Alright, come on.”

He was dead weight. His legs dragged, boots catching on the curb as she hauled him upright and slung his arm around her shoulders. Her knees nearly buckled under the burden, but she adjusted. Braced. Moved.

They made it halfway through the front gate before a door opened across the street.

She froze.

Porch light flicked on. A man stepped out with a small, wiry dog at his heels. It yapped once—high, sharp, inquisitive. The leash strained.

Grace didn’t move. Her spine locked straight, heart thundering in her chest as her hand slid slowly to the knife hidden in her pocket.

The man blinked at her.

Milky eyes. Clouded. One brow lifted in a vague expression of interest.

Blind. At least partially.

“Too much to drink?” he called out, a trace of amusement in his voice. The dog sniffed the air and barked again, then lost interest, tugging toward a nearby bush.

Her breath caught.

She scrambled mentally, rifling through the archive she’d built: the hours of language, of reality TV and bar conversations and cheap sitcoms with laugh tracks. Her Romanian wasn’t fluent—but it was enough.

“Yes,” she said carefully, adding a sheepish smile. “Birthday.”

The man laughed. “He’s lucky you’re so strong.”

She nodded, overly emphatic. “Yes.”

She didn’t wait for more. She adjusted her grip, hunched further beneath Bucky’s weight, and dragged him the rest of the way inside.

Up the stairs. Down the hall.

He groaned once—low and thin—but his eyes never opened.

She got him to the bedroom. Set him down on the edge of the bed. Her arms shook with the strain. His blood smeared the floor, the doorknob, the sheets. She didn’t stop to clean it.

She didn’t stop at all.

It was cleaner than the last bed he’d chosen. Crisp white linen. Fresh paint on the walls. A quiet, unoccupied kind of stillness that suggested no one had slept here for months.

Not that it was a competition.

But when he woke up, she’d tell him. Make a show of it. She’d roll her eyes, scoff about how she had to be the one to find somewhere civilized. Somewhere without roaches in the shower drain.

He’d smirk—maybe even chuckle—and remind her anything was good enough.

The thought caught in her chest like a jagged stone.

His clothes left dark streaks across the bedspread as she lowered him down. The white took it easily, a bloom of rust red beneath his thigh. She winced but didn’t look away.

The emergency kit was standard HYDRA issue. Military sterile. No frills. Every item placed with the cold logic of people who expected casualties. When you hunted Winter Soldiers, you packed for trauma.

She muttered a thank-you through gritted teeth as she unlatched the lid. Bandages. Coagulant foam. Sterile scissors. Suture thread. Everything she needed—enough to pretend she’d done this before.

Maybe she had.

Her hands stilled, finally, as she laid the tools out across the duvet.

You can do this.

You have to do this.

The leg first.

She shifted toward it—and froze. Her eyes landed on the buckle of his belt, and a dull thud began to beat behind her sternum.

Her breath caught. Not from the blood, or the bone-deep gash, or the pressure of time screaming down her neck—but from this.

From the line.

She could see it, invisible and burning. The edge he’d drawn around himself and her with wary glances, careful silences. The edge she hadn’t always understood, but had stopped crossing.

She hovered, fingers trembling above his waistband.

And then she drew back.

Snapped her knife free from its sheath and sliced through the fabric of his trousers instead, quick and clean, just enough to expose the wound. Left everything else intact. The knot in her chest loosened, but didn’t vanish.

It wasn’t logic. Wasn’t protocol. It was memory—half-understood but razor-sharp.

He hadn’t asked for this. Couldn’t consent to this.

She wasn’t going to take anything from him.

So she left the fabric. Let it crumple around his hips. Worked around it.

Her own belt came off next. She looped it around his thigh, yanked it tight with both hands and locked it. The muscle resisted her at first, still hot and rigid, but then gave. She pressed gauze to the wound, watched it bloom red.

Then wiped it clean.

Just enough.

A gleam of metal caught her eye.

The bullet.

Still inside.

She exhaled. Thank fuck.

It had torn through flesh and nicked the bone, but lodged deep. Hadn’t passed through. Hadn’t let him drain out completely. It had bought her time.

Minutes, maybe.

But that was enough.

Relief was a fleeting thing.

The moment she saw the angle of the slug, the depth it had buried itself, her stomach dropped. She hissed a curse under her breath. The second she pulled it, he’d start bleeding again. Fast. Hard.

She didn’t have a transfusion. Didn’t have the time or the tools or the hands she needed. All she had was instinct.

And a shirt soaked in blood.

It clung to her skin in heavy, wet patches—already half-shredded by gunfire—but it would have to do. She yanked it off and wadded it into a bundle, pressing it down onto his stomach to keep close.

The pincers in her hand rattled, metal against metal, clumsy in the vibranium grip.

She clenched her jaw. Growled. “Come on—”

As if hearing her, the gloves peeled back, vanishing with a hiss and a snap. Bare fingers now. Too late to question it.

She blinked. Then let out a long, slow breath. “Thank you,” she muttered, dry and sincere, before stooping to retrieve the tool from the sheets.

With the shirt balled tight in her left hand, ready to compress, she slid the pincers in and braced herself.

The wound squelched.

Warm, wet pressure slicked against her knuckles as she felt around blindly, metal scraping metal. Her stomach flipped at the sound, but she didn’t flinch. Bucky was lucky to be unconscious—she wasn’t being gentle. There wasn’t time for finesse. She was hunting in a field of pulp, praying the thing that tore him open wouldn’t rip anything worse on its way out.

Blood welled fast, flooding the cavity even before she could grip the bullet. She grit her teeth and worked faster, forcing the pincers deeper until—

Got it.

The slug emerged with a soft, obscene sound. She let it fall to the sheets, clattering harmlessly across the bloodstained linen, and jammed the shirt down hard.

Both hands. All her weight. Knee over the makeshift pad to keep pressure steady.

She reached for the metal tube on the bedside table. Slid the safety back, twisted the lid off with her teeth, and held it upright as it began to smoke.

The scent was vile—acidic, burning, medical.

When it glowed, she didn’t hesitate. Just murmured, “Sorry,” and plunged it into the wound.

No reaction. No twitch. No groan.

He was too far under for that now.

She exhaled through her nose, sharp and shaking, as the foam spread. It hissed where it touched blood. Sizzled down through the meat of him and cauterised as it cooled.

She loosened the belt by degrees, watching carefully. Any leak. Any sign of failure.

Nothing.

Still sealed.

A disbelieving breath burst from her lungs—half laugh, half sob—but she didn’t dwell in it. Couldn’t afford to.

He was stable. For now.

But she wasn’t done yet.

The syringe was preloaded. Clear fluid. Marked in Cyrillic.

Antibiotics.

She didn’t hesitate. There was no time to weigh risks or consider allergic reactions. Not when he was this compromised—open to infection, soaked in blood that wasn’t drying fast enough. Not when his body had already gone cold in places it shouldn’t be.

Even the Winter Soldier’s immune system had limits.

She twisted the cap off and plunged it into the muscle of his thigh, just below the tourniquet. The resistance was solid—too solid. It made her stomach turn. But the syringe emptied clean, and that was what mattered.

That was what he needed.

With the hard part done, she pressed a thick pad to the wound and secured it with surgical tape, wrapping it tight, not caring if she pulled skin. If he woke, he could bitch about it all he liked.

His leg was no longer a sieve. That was something.

She moved to his arm next, bracing for the worst—and felt her shoulders sag when she saw it wasn’t. A cleaner wound. Through and through. No foreign metal. The bleeding had slowed. Already, the skin at the edges had begun to knit together in tight, irritated lines. Coagulation had kicked in.

Of course it had.

The relief made her knees weak.

She sterilised it quickly—her touch more careful here, the urgency tapering off just enough to allow precision. Then the salve. Then fresh bandages. Layered smooth and fast, muscle memory kicking in from one too many late-night patch jobs she half-remembered.

When it was done, she stepped back.

The bed looked like a warzone. So did she.

But he wasn’t bleeding anymore.

That was what counted.

Now it was his turn. His body’s turn. To take what she’d done and survive it. To rebuild itself from the inside out. Piece by piece. Like it had so many times before.

It had practice, after all.

He was still filthy.

Blood—dried and fresh—had mingled with soot, ash, the sharp tang of gunpowder. Grime streaked every exposed inch of him, the white linen beneath soaked through, stained in abstract violence. The kind of mess that bred infection no matter how many years of conditioning lay underneath his skin. Antibiotics would hold off the worst of it, but she didn’t have more than a single dose. There was no margin for error.

She didn’t want to move him. Every instinct screamed against it. She’d spent the last hour keeping him alive by a thread—she wasn’t about to jostle that thread loose. But letting him lie in this was a risk of its own.

One more decision she didn’t want to make.

Grace left the room.

In the kitchen, she found a plastic bowl—thin, cheap, brittle around the rim—and filled it with cold water. The pipes stuttered. Groaned. Then gave. It was clean. Her hands stung beneath it, which was enough.

She added disinfectant from the bathroom, pale green and faintly floral. A bottle meant for surface wounds—scraped knees and cooking burns—not full-body trauma. It would have to do.

Towels came next—rough cotton from the linen cupboard, stiff with disuse. She carried everything back to the room in a heap against her chest.

Bucky hadn’t moved.

The room had gone dark in her absence. Moonlight pooled across the floorboards, casting silver across his face. For a moment, her heart stopped. He looked like death—hollowed out, lips pale, lashes still against his cheek.

But the thrum of his heart was still there. Thin. Thready. But present.

Still fighting.

She yanked the curtains shut with a sharp snap.

The car would need moving before dawn. Before someone called it in. She couldn’t do it tonight. Couldn’t risk leaving him. But if he made it through the night—and he would, he had to—she’d drive it out before sunrise, torch the evidence, then vanish from the smoke.

They’d be stranded. But when Bucky woke up—he’d know what to do. He’d find a way. He always did.

Grace tested the lamp beside the bed. The bulb hummed to life. The relief that hit her was immediate, illogical. Light pooled over the mattress in soft amber, warming the grey cast to his skin just enough that he looked less like something the earth was reclaiming. Just enough to keep the knot in her stomach from snapping taut again.

She sat beside him, bowl balanced on the edge of the bed. She would clean him gently, efficiently, carefully—like everything else.

She could do this.

She would do this.

Carefully, she shifted him—slow, mechanical, like working a lock with shaking hands. She aligned his legs, laid his arms over his stomach the way she’d seen him rest them on quiet nights, palms open, fingers loose. Not rigid like a corpse. She tucked a pillow beneath the wounded leg to keep it elevated, watched the muscle twitch in response to the shift, and took it as a sign he was still tethered. However faintly.

She started at his boots.

They came off easily, the laces stiff with dried blood. She left his socks in place. There was something too intimate about taking them off—too much like preparing a body for burial. And she wasn’t ready to feel the weight of that comparison. Not yet.

Her touch stayed clinical. Controlled. She cleaned only what was exposed: his hands, arms, neck, jawline. Wiped around the bandages without disturbing them. She didn’t move his clothes aside. Didn’t lift his shirt. Didn’t try to see more than he’d ever allowed. She wasn’t sure if it was respect or superstition, but she obeyed the rule nonetheless.

His skin resisted the water. The blood clung, mixed with sweat and smoke and road grit, streaking the towels until they were useless. She cycled through them methodically, moving in precise, practiced strokes—wiping, wringing, starting again. It gave her something to do. Something to control. Something to hold together.

By the time she reached his face, her hands had found their rhythm. The towel was warm. Softened with water. She pressed it to his jaw first, then his cheekbone, working her way in slow, concentric circles toward his brow. The grime lifted reluctantly, but she was patient. Careful.

There was no tension in his face. No grimace, no stubborn furrow between his brows. No rest, either. No dream-twitched lashes or micro-movements beneath the skin. Just blankness. Emptiness.

Not peace.

Not pain.

Just absence.

The silence pressed in harder. She cleaned his face like she was trying to coax him back into it.

It was strange, being this close. She’d looked at him for hours before—days, maybe. But never like this. Never with permission to linger. To study. To learn the details of him that speech and posture couldn’t offer.

He was built for violence. That much had never been in question. His strength wasn’t just in his will—it lived in his shoulders, his jaw, the brutal line of his collarbones. He was a weapon, sculpted and honed, and she had always known that.

But watching him tear through their enemies on the highway—watching the man vanish into the machine and the machine win—was something else entirely.

Something unforgettable.

The version of him that she had come to know, to trust—that man had vanished behind his eyes the second he climbed onto the roof of that car. And the thing that replaced him…

She couldn’t lie to herself. It had terrified her.

She’d never feared Bucky. Not even when she should have. Soldat weren’t permitted to be afraid of anything—not even him.

But Grace was. Grace had watched what lived beneath his skin and understood, in a way she never had before, why HYDRA wanted him back so badly.

Because the Winter Soldier still existed.

And the worst part wasn’t that he’d survived. It was that Bucky had let him out.

What if it had cost him something?

What if there were things he wouldn’t remember when he woke?

Things he couldn’t?

Would he even be himself?

Or just the body he left behind?

Her hand trembled. She wet the towel again, ran it over his forehead one last time, catching the sweat beading at his hairline.

It didn’t matter, she told herself. Didn’t matter who opened those eyes, so long as they opened.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Flashes of light—white-hot, searing. It punched through his vision like shrapnel. He flinched—or tried to. Nothing moved. His veins had turned to wet cement, his fists locked in a grip so tight it felt like bone might crack.

A voice snapped through the silence.

“Soldat.”

It cracked across his mind like a whip. Left a welt behind. He tasted it—blood and gun oil. Burnt metal. The scent of scorched skin clung to the back of his throat. Leather straps bit into his wrists as the chair creaked under his weight.

He knew this place.

“State your mission.”

No.

His lungs seized. This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. He knew this place, but he wasn’t meant to be here. Not now. He was supposed to be—

—Brooklyn.

Late summer.

He was twenty. Elbows hooked over his knees, a soda bottle dangling between his fingers. Next to him, a sketchbook. Steve’s hands trembling over the paper as he tried to get the lines of a brownstone just right.

The air smelled like blacktop and sugar.

Mrs. Callahan was screaming from the third-floor window about muddy shoes and the good rug.

“I got rid of the car. Torched it halfway across the city.”

The voice didn’t belong. It hit like a rock dropped in still water. Bucky’s grip on the bottle tightened. Glass bit into his palm.

No, wait—

That wasn’t right. That didn’t fit.

“Burn it down.”

His hand moved on reflex, match struck, Molotov lit, arm arcing wide. Fire danced up the walls like it had been waiting. Starving. The scream that followed was inhuman. It ripped through the alleyway, dragging smoke and memory behind it.

“It was on the news.”

The words dropped into the fire and drowned it. Smoke hissed into steam. Flame shrank.

He blinked.

Now he was in a bed too small for his frame. The sheets were damp. So was he. Sweat plastered curls to his forehead. Fever clung to him like a second skin. He knew this place too. Not the room—the moment. Childhood.

A woman sat beside him with a cloth in her hand. She dabbed at his brow. Her fingers in his hair.

“This is why we change our clothes when we get back from playing in the rain,” she murmured.

His eyes fell shut. The cloth cooled his skin. The sound of her voice was a lullaby unravelling in his chest.

Then it shifted.

“I remembered something today.”

Not her voice.

Not his mother. Someone else. A thread of rasp woven with hesitation. Unfamiliar, yet—no. Familiar now.

“The woman with the lipstick…I think she was my mother. I think I always knew that, but—”

His mother didn’t react. The cloth hovered over his temple, dripping cold down his jaw. Her face didn’t move. Like nothing had been said at all.

“What?” His voice cracked. Young. Raw with illness.

She hummed. “And you ought to take better care of Steve. He’s got bad lungs. You know that. He’s your responsibility.”

A lump swelled in his throat. He couldn’t swallow it.

“What’s your name?”

Not hers. Not anyone’s. Cold. Stern. It grabbed him by the spine and dragged him under the mattress, deeper than the sheets, deeper than the floorboards.

“Your name, Soldat.”

James. No. Bucky. No—

“You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay.”

His chest unknotted. The light dimmed. Something warm—not fire. Not fear. Something that filled him without burning. It held him like water, weightless and full.

No nightmares here. Not while it was there.

He didn’t know what it was. But he wanted it to stay.

He felt it press to his chest. A presence. Not threatening. Not heavy. Just there. A weight with meaning.

“Are you ever going to wake up?”

A whisper. Dry as winter leaves. Gentle as the break of dawn. It tucked itself into the hollow between his ribs and stayed there. He knew it. The shape of it. Even if the voice slipped through his fingers.

The world twisted again.

He stood on pavement slick with last night’s rain. Brick buildings boxed him in. Streetcars rattled past. Paperboys shouted headlines. The sky glowed late afternoon gold.

Steve stood in front of him.

Hands shoved in his pockets. Shoulders hunched like always. Smirk like he knew something Bucky didn’t.

“Good to see you again, Buck.”

The sound of it nearly broke him. He exhaled—sharp, unsteady.

Steve clapped his shoulder. The warmth shot down to his elbow.

Then Steve tilted his head.

Bucky followed his gaze.

She was there.

Grace.

But—not the one he remembered. Not in shadows. Not in blood or fire or trembling silence. There was something clean about her. Something light. A cord inside her uncoiled. She stood like she belonged to the moment. To him.

She smiled. First at Steve. Then at Bucky.

Home, that smile said.

Steve’s hand squeezed once more before he turned and walked away, fading into light.

Bucky didn’t follow.

He stayed where he was.

Where it was warm.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER NINETEEN

She woke to warmth beneath her palm.

It took a moment to register. The slow, deliberate rise and fall of his chest. Heat blooming through the cotton of his shirt. The steady rhythm beneath her hand—not fragile, not fading. Strong.

Her breath left her in a single, shuddering exhale. She didn’t move. Just blinked at the ceiling, muscles locked in the quiet disbelief that he’d survived the night. The morning. The week.

Seven days.

They’d passed like water through clenched fists—fever and fear and whispered confessions to a man who hadn’t opened his eyes once.

That first night, she’d pressed her fingers to his pulse every few minutes, panic closing her throat if she couldn’t find it straight away. Not trusting the sound of it, not trusting herself. Listening wasn’t enough. She needed contact. Proof. Was it slowing? Strengthening? Had she missed something? Missed him?

Then came the fever. Violent and unrelenting.

She’d spent hours stripping blankets off him, then piling them back on when he started to shake. She was too tired to think clearly, too wired to rest. Eventually she gave up pretending she’d be able to stay awake, let her hand rest flat over his heart, and prayed that if something changed—anything—it would wake her.

She talked to him through all of it.

At first, it was logical things. Or thing that tried to be. She explained where they were. That she’d ditched the car, burnt it out halfway across the city. That it was compromised, marked—HYDRA would’ve traced it within the hour. She told him he was healing. That his leg had stopped bleeding. That she was keeping him safe.

She talked about her suit—how she’d finally managed to coax it off on her own. Not all at once, not cleanly. Piece by piece. A hand. A knee. An hour later, a shoulder. It had taken half a day. But she’d done it.

And then the words changed. Turned crooked at the edges. Less tactical. More human.

She told him she hated doing this alone. The crippling paranoia. The constant decisions. That she didn’t know how he’d lasted a month without shooting himself in the fucking head, let alone six.

She ranted about the tiny corner shop and how they didn’t have any birthday cake protein bars. She’d had to settle for salted caramel. He’d be jealous if he knew—those were always the ones he went for first. He acted like it didn’t matter. Like food was just fuel. But she’d seen it. Tracked the pattern. Called it out when he was too tired to deny it.

She’d said she’d eat them all if he didn’t wake up.

Then, quieter: that she didn’t know what she was doing.

That she was afraid.

That if he didn’t wake up soon, she was going to lose her mind.

She’d whispered it to his skin. Into the dark. Into the static hush of a bedroom that held too much silence and not enough sound.

Through all of it, he hadn’t moved. Not a twitch. Not a murmur. Not a flicker of pain behind his eyelids.

But now—finally—his breathing was deeper. Measured. Less of a war of attrition and more the steady rhythm of something repairing itself.

Colour had returned to his skin. Still too pale, but not chalk. Still too still, but not lifeless. She could see the progress in the little things. The way the bandages lifted with each breath. The way his chest no longer looked concave with strain.

Somehow, impossibly, he was healing.

The wounds were cleaner each time she changed the dressings. His arm didn’t need anything now. No gauze. No antiseptic. There wasn’t even a particularly impressive scar. The skin had closed up like it had never been torn open. Typical. The serum worked overtime where she didn’t want it, and not fast enough where it mattered most.

His leg was a different story.

The skin there was still angry—puckered from the cauterisation, pink and swollen from the infection she hadn’t been able to head off completely. A crude, desperate fix. She knew that. But he was alive. He was alive, and he was staying that way.

Her hand lingered a moment longer against his chest. Then she finally pulled away.

The chill of the room greeted her immediately, cool air brushing against sweat-damp skin. Her joints popped as she moved—her body stiff from nights spent half-sitting, half-lying, never fully asleep. She hadn’t allowed herself to rest. Not really. Not with him like this. When he couldn’t defend himself and they were relying on her judgement of what was safe.

The wardrobe gave easily under her hand. She rummaged through drawers and hangers until she found a pair of cotton leggings and a men’s sweater. It was too big, the collar wide, sleeves slipping past her wrists. She didn’t care. It was warm. Comforting.

She didn’t stop to think about why that mattered.

Downstairs, the house remained dark, hushed behind drawn curtains and blinds she’d pulled tight days ago. The kitchen smelled faintly of mildew and canned soup. She stood at the sink, scanning the countertop and mentally calculating how long they could survive on what was left.

Two cans of tomato. One of beans. Half a loaf of bread—mostly edible, if she picked the mould off. Some days she didn’t bother. There were crackers. Powdered milk. A shrivelled apple she couldn’t bring herself to throw away.

She could stretch it. Maybe another day or two.

But when Bucky woke up—if he woke up—he was going to need more than tinned sodium and old toast. His body would be cannibalising itself by now, every calorie diverted to healing. He’d need protein, electrolytes, salt, sugar. Replenishment. Not scraps. She hadn’t touched the protein bars in his bag—much—but they wouldn’t be of use until he could actually eat.

She’d considered sneaking into a hospital and stealing a drip. A bag of fluids. An IV kit.

She still might. But it was a massive risk, and if something went wrong—if HYDRA found them—she couldn’t move him fast enough to get them both out.

How long could they stay here?

How far away was HYDRA?

She gritted her teeth. Swallowed the thoughts before they could root too deep. No answers. No plans. She wasn’t ready to face that yet.

Instead, she poured a glass of water to fill her stomach and padded back up the stairs, flicking on the television at the lowest volume as she passed. Not for updates. For noise. Anything to drown out the sound of waiting.

For the last week, every news outlet had looped the same story on a twenty-four-hour cycle. The highway attack. No footage of the fight itself—only aftermath. Aerial views of the wreckage. Blood. Smoke. Mangled sedans and blacked-out SUVs twisted around guardrails. A helicopter dredged from the river in pieces.

Pundits speculated. Experts made promises. The Winter Soldier had resurfaced, they said. Again.

She knew the pattern. Knew the music they played under the coverage. The stark grayscale tone of fear-mongering dressed up as public interest.

But today—today—there was something new.

The video was grainy. Shaky. Shot from street-level on a phone, maybe—a civilian caught in the wrong place with just enough battery to document the end of the world.

A city was splitting apart.

Floating.

People ran. Screamed. The ground cracked beneath them, swallowed them whole. Steel and stone folded in on themselves like paper. Somewhere off-camera, a woman was howling for her child.

Grace turned the volume up.

The anchor’s voice bled through static, brittle with disbelief.

“…confirming mass casualties in Sokovia after what many are calling an unprecedented catastrophe. The Avengers were deployed to the region after reports surfaced of a ground-breaking artificial intelligence program turning on its creators—"

She didn’t register the rest. Not really.

Her stomach turned as the images kept rolling—dust-caked survivors crawling over rubble and corpses, limbs bare and bloodied, some still moving, others not. A whole city suspended in the sky like a held breath.

And then—him.

Not a face she knew personally. But a face she’d heard spoken of in the kind of reverent tones usually reserved for saints.

Captain America.

Her mouth was dry. “Steve,” she murmured, eyes flicking instinctively to Bucky’s still form. “Steve was there.”

Onscreen, he was shouting something to a group of civilians, shield raised, jaw set. Covered in dirt. Moving like he didn’t feel it. Like stopping to even breathe was too selfish.

Always moving, she thought absently. It must be something they had in common.

“Being a hero,” she said aloud, her voice hollow, flaking off the walls. “Saving people. All that good guy bullshit.” A short, brittle laugh slipped past her lips. It didn’t make it far.

Bucky didn’t stir. Of course he didn’t.

She folded in on herself, knees to chest, chin tucked down, fingers curling into the cuffs of the too-large sweater like she could disappear into the fabric. Like it could make her smaller, less visible. Less vulnerable to thoughts she’d gone seven days avoiding.

Steve Rogers.

It wasn’t a name she said around Bucky. Not deliberately—not because it was forbidden, but because it felt like something delicate. Too raw to prod at. Too human.

Even when she’d been more soldat than Grace, she’d skirted the edge of it, chalking the discomfort up to irrelevance. What did the past matter when there was so little of a future? But that had always been a lie.

It was respect. Ancient and bone-deep. The kind you didn’t question. The type even weapons could have for one another.

She never asked for hard stories. Not the real ones. She’d asked about Steve before the war—safe memories. A sketchbook in the park. Warm pavement. Sickness and small rebellions. Bucky offered up facts when prompted, like loose change from a coat pocket, but the rest he left unsaid.

Except for the river.

That one time, he’d spoken of his own accord. About the pull of it. The taste of blood in his mouth. The weight of Steve’s body in his arms. The way he hadn’t hesitated.

But even then, he'd stuck to details. Circumstance. Coordinates. Nothing too vulnerable. Nothing like grief.

Grace hadn’t pressed. She hadn’t needed to.

Because what he didn’t say sat just beneath the surface of his voice, in the tension that crept into his shoulders when the name came up. The stiffness of a man still expecting to be judged for a crime he hadn’t committed. Or had. It didn’t matter. Not to him.

Bucky was afraid.

Not of dying. Not even of HYDRA.

Of Steve.

Afraid that, after everything, after clawing his way back out of hell on bloodied hands and busted knuckles—he wouldn’t be enough. That the man who’d once followed him into war, who’d leapt into the Seine and trusted him without question, would look at him now and see only the aftermath.

See what he’d become, instead of why.

And Grace—Grace didn’t know if he was right to be afraid. She wasn’t an expert on redemption. On forgiveness. On what people could or couldn’t stomach when the truth finally stood in front of them.

But it struck her as strange—no, hypocritical—for a hero to turn his back when it got hard. When the mission wasn’t easy. When it stopped being about numbers and started being about people. Ugly, broken, half-salvaged people.

People like Bucky.

She let her forehead rest on her knees, listening to the low murmur of the television, to the breath still rising and falling beneath the blanket upstairs.

To the weight of what it meant to be needed by someone like him.

And what it would mean—if Steve didn’t show up.

A sound.

Small. Subtle. But unmistakable.

Something shifting downstairs.

She went still, the breath caught in her lungs as she was dragged from her thoughts sharply. Her eyes flicked to Bucky, where he lay motionless—still dead to the world, still bleeding heat into the mattress like it was borrowed. Like it might be taken back at any second.

Defenceless.

Her muscles tensed. The silence screamed.

She moved fast—fluid—rolling to her side, fingers curling around the knife on the bedside table. Her pulse thudded in her ears, steady now. Grounded. She swung her legs to the floor, armour crawling across her limbs with a hiss like breath sucked between teeth—until it reached her jaw.

Then—stopped.

Because someone was in the doorway.

A man.

Tall. Broad. Dark skin gleaming in the soft, orange spill from the hallway light behind him. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t reach for a weapon. Just stood there—arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, gaze locked onto her with the calm precision of someone trained for this. Someone who knew how to break a room down into threats and targets.

But he wasn’t the only one calculating.

Grace didn’t move. Didn’t dare blink. The blade stayed loose in her grip, lowered but ready. Her breath narrowed to a thread. Her body wound itself into a coil around the space between them.

His eyes flicked from her to the bed. To Bucky’s body. The shape of him over the covers, the slow rise and fall of his chest. Then back to her.

His voice, when it came, was low. Steady. No accusation. No fear.

Only concern.

“What happened to him?”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY

Noise.

Not loud. Not violent. But taut. A crackle in the air like a storm caught between breaths.

Male and female. The woman—Grace—struck first. Her voice didn’t ask. It warned. Carved. A rasp of control so razor-sharp it made the hairs on his arms lift.

The man’s reply was low, deliberate. Not calm. Careful.

Measured steps in a minefield.

Something ancient in him jolted.

Danger.

Not to her.

To him.

Wake up.

The command didn’t shout—it detonated. Punched through the sludge of his body and kicked him up from the black. But nothing moved. Limbs like anchors. Head split open behind the eyes. Throat too dry to swallow. He clawed his way back anyway, teeth gritted against the weight.

When he surfaced—

Her.

Crouched over him like a beast over its kill. No, not kill. Guarding. Shielding. Her spine was arched, legs coiled, blade drawn low across her front—not poised, not ready. Promised. It was the posture of a creature who’d decided what she was going to do long before you gave her a reason.

The door stood open behind her. A silhouette filled it.

Bucky’s stomach clenched.

Broad frame. Quiet stance. Not HYDRA. Not hostile. But—

Recognition crawled. Slow. Foul.

He’d fought him once. Not as Bucky. As the other thing.

On a roof. On a bridge. On instinct.

A man with wings.

He didn’t know the name. Didn’t need to. The body remembered the threat. And the guilt that came after.

Pain flared sharp behind his temples, reality catching up too fast. Grace was still over him. Still crouched like she hadn’t moved in days. Her chest rising, tight and fast. One twitch from the man in the doorway and she’d lunge.

For him.

It landed hard. Drove breath into his lungs like a body blow.

She was protecting him.

God, how long had he been down?

He moved before he thought, hand dragging across the mattress, reaching until his fingers brushed metal. Her suit. He gripped it. Weak, but solid.

She whipped around so fast her hair caught air.

And her face—

Jesus.

Hollowed out. Eyes too bright. Mouth dry and cracked. Every inch of her carved down to survival. She looked like she hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t breathed for days. Like someone had put her through hell and left her there to burn.

Because he had.

His grip tightened on her ankle.

The room went still.

And somewhere behind her, the man took a breath.

Bucky forced his gaze downward. His clothes were still on—stiff, blood-soaked, stinking of copper and dirt and something older. Sweat crusted along his collar. Dried blood tugged at the fibres in his jeans. The sharp pulse in his leg confirmed what his eyes found a second later: clean cotton bandage, soaked through at the seam. A brutal tear in the denim where the round had gone in. It hurt like hell.

But he was alive.

How?

The last thing he remembered with any clarity was the rhythm of pursuit. Engine screams. Rotor thrum. Steel shadows boxing them in. No escape. No weapons. No plan.

Then—darkness.

And now—this.

He tried to swallow. Sandpaper. Broken glass. His throat was raw, his tongue thick. Every breath scraped. He blinked again and dragged his gaze back to the man in the doorway.

No uniform. No insignia. No threat in his posture—but Grace didn’t care. She was coiled, vibrating, ready to kill.

Which meant Bucky had to try.

His voice came out cracked, barely more than sand scraping metal. “Hey.”

The sound cost him. His head fell back, and then the coughing started. Deep, wet. Chest folding in on itself with every heave. Pain lit up under his ribs—blunt at first, then sharp, like a blade flicked through scar tissue.

Grace was gone from her crouch and at his side in one clean movement.

She grabbed the glass from the table—steady hands, sure grip—and slid her arm behind his head. Lifted him with a gentleness that didn’t match anything about her body. Pressed the rim to his lips.

He drank like it was air. First sip, salvation. Second, too fast. He gagged, but she pulled it away before it turned worse. He coughed once more, lighter this time, and let his head fall back.

He looked at her again

And for a second—for one thin sliver of a second—he didn’t see the assassin, the escapee, the weapon with a flick-knife tongue.

He saw a girl left alone.

Young. Grey. Unravelling at the edges.

Her eyes didn’t shine; they burned. Exhaustion etched her face into someone he didn’t recognise. Like the Grace he knew had walked into the fire—and this was what staggered back out.

And God help him; he wanted to thank her.

But then the floor creaked.

Her spine straightened. Every inch of her shot back into position. Blade up. Eyes flaring.

Like she’d only just remembered they weren’t alone.

“Hey, hey,” the man said carefully, both hands rising—not in fear, but in practiced neutrality. “Put the knife down. I just wanna talk.”

Grace didn’t so much as twitch. Her voice was low, guttural. The kind of sound that lived beneath language. “Back the fuck up.”

His brows lifted.

So did Bucky’s.

He watched the man reassess—eyes flicking between them, clocking Grace’s stance, his own prone body, the tension in the room so thick it had weight. Whatever plan he'd come with, it clearly didn’t involve her.

He turned his attention to Bucky instead. Exhaled slow. Tilted his head.

“You remember me, huh?” A slight nod toward Grace. “Call your dog off, and I’ll explain. If we’ve got the time.”

No name. Just implication. Memory unspooled sluggishly—flickers of a fight, glass underfoot, the screaming tilt of a helicarrier. Not friend. Not foe. Tactical, maybe. Calculated. But not HYDRA.

That, at least, Bucky was sure of.

But certainty wasn’t the same as safety.

His head ached. His leg was screaming. His chest still echoed from the cough. But worse than all of it was the pressure of Grace’s weight beside him—how she hadn’t moved. Wouldn’t. She’d kill for him. No hesitation. And he didn’t want that. Not now. Not when it wasn’t needed. Not if he could still do something about it.

He shifted—slow, dragging his good arm through molasses—and tapped the back of her thigh. Just once. Steady. Grounding.

Her eyes flicked down.

Then to him.

He held her gaze, every word he couldn’t say folded into a single rasped line. “It’s okay.”

A beat passed.

Another.

Then, with deliberate slowness, she eased the knife down. Not dropped. Not discarded. Just lowered—like a promise she could still keep.

She didn’t move from his side. Didn’t blink. Just said, dead calm:

“Speak quickly.”

The man rolled his shoulders, shaking off the last of the tension. His voice was dry—threaded with something like humour, but guarded. Testing the perimeter.

“Well,” he said, gaze still on Grace, “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but you just tried to stab me, so let’s skip the pleasantries.”

She didn’t respond.

He sighed and dragged a hand down his face, shedding the joke like a coat. “Name’s Sam Wilson. Cap sent me.”

That made Bucky blink.

Sam’s attention flicked to him. “He’s been a little busy fighting a homicidal AI bent on global extinction, so you’re stuck with me. You are a slippery motherfucker. But her?” He nodded toward Grace, and Bucky felt her twitch beneath his hand. “Not so much.”

She flinched. Barely. A hitch in breath. A slight shift in weight. Anyone else would’ve missed it. He didn’t.

Without stopping to consider, he rubbed his thumb against the back of her thigh. The smallest thing. The only thing he could offer her right now. He was alive because of her. He didn’t care how cleanly she’d managed it. Whatever she’d done, they’d figure it out. Fix it.

She didn’t move.

Neither did Sam.

“I’m not here to make trouble,” he said, quieter now. “But if trouble starts, I’ll end it. I’m only standing in this room because Steve asked me to be. Said if I found you, I don’t walk out without you. And man—” His voice thinned, like it caught on something. “You don’t look like you’ve got many walks left.”

That landed. Not cruel. Not even wrong. Just real.

His eyes tracked between them, and Bucky felt the measure being taken. “If I found you, someone else will. You want to die here, fine. But Barnes?”

A beat.

“He’s coming with me.”

*

If it was possible, she’d gone colder.

By the time Bucky managed to haul himself upright, spine protesting every inch, Grace’s mood had calcified into something beyond distrust. Glacial. Detached in a way that wasn’t passive, but sharpened—scalpel, not ice. She paced like she had knives in her heels and nothing left to lose.

It was impressive, in its own way. She was more combative now with Sam than she’d been with Bucky in Bucharest—when she thought he was the Winter Soldier from her nightmares. Then when she'd found out he was a poor imitation, in her professional opinion.

That took effort.

Her stare never wavered. That too-intense scrutiny, the way her pupils held fast to Sam’s every movement. Every flicker. When she looked away, it was only for a moment, and when her gaze returned, it did so colder. Like steel left out in snow.

Sam didn’t rise to it. Not verbally. But he wasn’t ignoring her either. His posture was loose, hands relaxed, but Bucky caught the flick of his eyes each time she moved too quickly. The fractional tightening of his jaw.

For once, he wasn’t the biggest threat in the room.

Bucky accepted it. With the sweat beading along his hairline and the throb in his thigh ratcheting up every time he adjusted his weight, humility came easy. His body felt hollowed out, each movement fuelled by whatever was left after his muscles had turned cannibal.

He worked his way through a line of water bottles, each one replaced silently by Grace the moment it neared empty. A small stack of protein bars had been set out beside him like an offering. One was already opened. A bite missing. Not his.

His eyes slid toward her again.

She was leaner. Sharper at the edges. Her cheeks were more shadow than skin, the hollows beneath her eyes bruised with fatigue. He remembered the version of her that stalked his dreams—head high, suit gleaming, posture unyielding.

That Grace had never really existed. But this one was further from her than he’d ever seen.

He pushed the half-eaten bar toward her.

She didn’t look at it. Didn’t break stride. She just kept circling the perimeter like a predator. Waiting for Sam to slip. For Bucky to change his mind and take it all back.

He exhaled slowly. Rolled his shoulder. Felt no pain.

He tugged at the torn seam in his shirt, peering down through the ragged hole in the fabric. The skin beneath was unbroken. New. And clean.

Which was strange—because the rest of him wasn’t.

His shirt stuck to him in places, crusted with blood and whatever else. He could feel the grime under his arms, across his stomach and legs. Soap clung faintly to parts of him—his arm, his neck, the line of his jaw—but it didn’t match the rest. Like he’d been cleaned in pieces.

A new unease settled in his chest.

She’d done that.

And now she wouldn’t even sit.

Sam slipped the phone into his pocket, casting a long glance between them. “Cap’s still knee-deep in Sokovia fallout, but I’ve got a place. Off-grid. Quiet. We can regroup there until we figure out next steps.”

“We?” Grace’s voice cut across the room like wire.

“Yes. We.” Sam didn’t flinch. “If you think I’m letting either of you out of my sight, you’re dreaming. I already don’t trust him. And you?” He flicked his fingers at her. “You’re just lucky my suit’s at the dry cleaners.”

Grace bared her teeth. Not a smile.

Bucky snorted.

It surprised all three of them. The laugh that slipped out of him was low and wrecked, too dry to land properly. But it was there.

The moment didn’t last.

They both looked at him, and the humour drained out like breath from a collapsed lung. The reminder settled heavy in the space between them: he wasn’t okay. Not even close. He was sitting upright through sheer force of will. His body felt like it had been dug out of a wreck.

Because it had.

He’d thought about contacting Steve before—weeks ago. Months? Back when his hands didn’t shake and his ribs didn’t feel like they were stitched together with thread. But it had always been a last resort. A thing you reached for when the world gave you nothing else.

Well.

They were there now.

He couldn’t run. Couldn’t fight. Wasn’t even sure he could stay conscious if he stood up too fast. The wound in his leg was healing slower than it should. Whatever boost the serum gave him had been bled out on a Romanian highway.

Grace had held it together longer than anyone else could’ve. Longer than he had any right to ask.

But she couldn’t keep doing it alone.

HYDRA knew where they were.

And if Sam had found them—others weren’t far behind.

The truth of it sat in his gut like a stone. This wasn’t a last resort anymore. It was the only one they had left.

Bucky didn’t trust Sam. Simple as that. Grace didn’t either. And truthfully, he wasn’t sure he trusted Steve—not to accept what the world had done to him, not to see the man who remained instead of the weapon that had survived. But trust wasn’t the question anymore. They were past that. This wasn’t about belief. It was about inevitability.

Because if Steve wanted to separate them, there was no fighting him. Not in the shape Bucky was in. Grace was lethal, fast, feral when cornered—but she was running on fumes. She hadn’t been eating, hadn’t been sleeping. Her hands were steady, but her body was thinning out beneath her, starving on every level.

There was no guarantee she’d win. No guarantee she’d even make it out.

And what would it buy them, anyway? Killing Sam? Steve?

It wasn’t a plan. It was a spiral. The kind that cut off every exit until all you had left was blood on your hands and nowhere left to go.

No. There was no stopping this. They’d been found by someone they hadn’t even known was looking.

That alone changed the game.

The only card Bucky could still play—the only comfort he had left—was the one certainty he could offer her: that Steve, at least, wouldn’t hurt them. Wouldn’t try to reactivate them. Sam either. That much, he was sure of. They didn’t want the Wraith and the Winter Soldier unleashed on the world. But did that mean freedom? Autonomy?

Wasn’t guaranteed. Not even close.

Once they stepped into the Avengers’ orbit, their path would be set. They’d be contained, managed, monitored. Steve wouldn’t call it a prison. But it would be one.

And Bucky didn’t know where that road ended.

Didn’t know if it ended at all.

The thought turned his stomach—but it was the look in Grace’s eyes that gutted him. That flash of hesitation when she said yes. When he asked her to stay. To go with him.

She was afraid.

And she still chose to follow him.

So he did what he always did.

Acted like he knew what the fuck he was doing.

“Okay,” Bucky said quietly, nodding once. “You said we didn’t have a lot of time?”

“Even less now,” Sam replied, tapping the screen on his forearm. “Nothing on infrared, but I can only scan a mile out. How much time do you need?”

Bucky turned his head, slowly. Grace was already moving.

She crossed the room with surgical precision, not grace—just speed born of purpose. The moment Sam stopped talking, she went to the wardrobe and pulled out the frayed bag. The same one he’d carried halfway across Romania.

Blood soaked one side of it. A dull, darkened stain.

His chest ached.

She’d kept it. Through everything, she’d kept hold of it.

He’d have to ask her why. When he could, he’d ask her what the hell drove her to risk her life for that damn bag.

Without hesitation, she began filling it with what remained. The protein bars. A few items of clothing. Spare ammo. The last of the cash, the half-empty medical kit. There wasn’t much left. But she took it anyway. Packed fast and without sentiment, like a soldier under fire. Every movement broadcast what she wasn’t saying aloud.

If she had to run again, she was going to be ready.

Bucky didn’t argue. He didn’t point out that they’d be fine once they got wherever it was Sam wanted to take them. That the Avengers had gear. Supplies. Food. Shelter. What they didn’t have—could never give—was trust. And she didn’t move until she was sure she had something to fall back on.

So long as she was tasking, she wasn’t watching Sam like she was measuring which of his organs to puncture first.

“Why did he send you after us?” he asked without looking up.

Sam stepped back, allowing her to pass.

“You,” he corrected. “Wasn’t expecting you to have a—”

He glanced at Grace. Paused.

“—a friend. Thought it was you going full Winter Soldier on that bridge until I tapped into highway monitoring. But it was too messy. Even for you.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “It was survival.”

That stopped the conversation.

Sam’s mouth opened. Closed. His jaw ticked like he wanted to argue—ethics, optics, damage control—but he didn’t. One active threat in the room was apparently his limit.

Smart man.

“Can you walk?” Sam asked instead.

Did he have a choice?

Bucky set his jaw and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The movement cost him. His vision wavered, black spots blooming in the corners like bruises. A grunt escaped before he could bite it back.

When he braced to stand, Grace was there.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t reach. Just existed at his side like she always had—in silence, in shadow, in readiness. She made no move to assist until his arm lifted, shaky and uncertain, then slid beneath it without hesitation. Her shoulder locked under his ribs. Compact. Steady. Solid enough to bear the weight of him.

He felt her strength and knew it came at a cost. Knew she didn’t have it to spare. But she gave it anyway.

Sam clocked the exchange with narrowed eyes.

“We’re gonna have a little talk about this,” he muttered.

Bucky’s head turned, slow and sharp. The glare he levelled was flat and final. “She’s not your concern.”

“She killed nine people,” Sam fired back. “Injured dozens of civilians.”

Grace said nothing.

She didn’t defend herself. Didn’t goad Sam. Just kept walking—one measured step at a time, guiding Bucky toward the door like the words didn’t touch her.

But Bucky looked at her. Really looked. And before they hit the stairs, he caught her eye. Gave her a nod.

They weren’t people. Not in the way Sam thought. Whatever she’d done, it hadn’t been senseless. It hadn’t been unjust. It was the only thing she could have done.

If Sam couldn’t understand that—if he couldn’t look her in the eye and see that she’d chosen the impossible thing and lived with it—then that was his problem.

And Bucky would deal with it.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Bucky’s weight pressed into her as she hauled him into the backseat of Sam’s car. His body was all dead muscle and sheer will, breath thin, skin clammy, eyes barely open beneath the streetlight flicker. He shouldn’t have been walking. Shouldn’t even have been standing.

And yet, he’d done his best not to lean on her.

Idiot.

It had taken everything in her not to snap. Not to tell him that there was nothing noble in this. That honour and pride weren’t worth shit when he could barely hold himself upright. That his insistence on walking had only made it harder—for both of them.

But she didn’t.

Because she wasn’t stupid.

If Sam even sensed a fracture between them, he’d wedge himself into it like a crowbar. Divide and isolate. Grace knew the type—calm voice, righteous cause, fists she didn’t trust. And Bucky had let him in. Trusted him enough to climb into his car and call it safety.

So she did what she always did.

She did what Bucky told her to do.

That was what mattered. That was all that mattered.

She straightened slowly, rolling her shoulders, shaking out her arms. Her suit held steady across her back—stiff, protective, unreadable. She didn’t ask it to retract.

Didn’t want to.

From the corner of her eye, she caught Sam stepping out of the house. Bucky’s bag in one hand, keys in the other. Casual. Confident. Like he belonged in the middle of their life. Like he had the right.

Her fingers flexed. She should follow Bucky. Get in. He’d asked. She’d agreed.

But her feet wouldn’t move.

Not yet.

Not while he stood there, framed by the porch light like a damn answer to a prayer she’d never made.

Bucky chose this.

He woke up—and just like that, everything shifted.

They were supposed to run south. Lay low. Heal. Keep each other alive.

That was the plan. That had always been the plan.

But now?

Now she was watching him fold himself into the backseat of a stranger’s car—some government-trained peacekeeper with too many connections and too few questions. Now she was being asked to follow.

And the door—that door—might as well have been iron bars.

Because whatever this was, it wasn’t freedom.

It was someone else behind the wheel. Someone new in control.

And she didn’t know why.

She didn’t know what she’d done wrong.

She’d kept him alive. Pulled him out. Fought, stitched, risked everything to get them somewhere safe. And he would have woken up. He had. They would have continued on their mission and been free—

But the first thing he did was surrender.

He’d asked her to do the same.

And God help her—she did. Because what other choice did she have?

And every step was getting harder to take.

Grace eventually climbed into the car but paused, her hand on the door. A moment of hesitation. Two. And then she shut it—softly, instinctively—but it still sounded like a gunshot in the silence.

She sat stiff and upright, spine rigid against the seat, eyes fixed on the dark outside. Watching the world slip away in the reflection of the tinted glass.

The world where she’d almost—almost—been something more than what they made her.

Not human, not quite. But something adjacent.

This had been the only place where survival hadn’t meant solitude. Where she’d let herself imagine that her life could expand past the next contingency, the next enemy, the next night on the floor with a knife in hand and her back to a wall.

And now she was leaving it behind.

It felt like saying goodbye to the only future she’d ever let herself want.

She could feel Bucky watching her. Not out of concern—calculation. The kind of stare he gave threats. She didn’t need to look to know what it meant. He was reading the tension in her jaw, the tilt of her head, the rhythm of her breath. Mapping it. Waiting for the tremor.

Preparing to act.

She kept her eyes on the glass.

Because what was there to say?

Would she ask him why? Would she ask if he was angry? If she’d ruined the only shot they had by turning the highway into a battleground? She knew the answer to all of it.

She’d gotten them caught.

She’d done her best. And that was the part that stung. She just hadn’t been good enough. Smart enough. Fast enough. Strong enough.

All she’d wanted was to save him. Save herself. Stop the hands of men who’d once dragged them both into the dark and called it purpose.

Keep him from going back.

Back to the chair. Back to the emptiness.

Bucky didn’t want to be the Winter Soldier anymore. That had been clear from the beginning. He didn’t want to be a weapon; a name hissed through security briefings and blacksite corridors. He wanted out.

And she had done everything—everything—to keep him from being used that way again.

And she’d failed.

Now he was going back to the one person who knew him before.

Before HYDRA. Before all of it.

And Grace would still be what she had always been.

The weapon they never had to reprogram. The thing in the dark no one came looking for.

She had no before. No girl at a carnival. No boardwalk kiss. No step to sit on with soda and sunlight. Nothing but rot. Bile. Commands and compliance. Memories that crawled like sickness under her skin. She had glimpses—her mother, lipstick, eyes too sad—but even those felt like lies she was trying to forge into truth.

Bucky remembered because he wanted to. Because he wasn’t ready to let go.

He was still trying to become the man he’d been. Still believed he could get back there, somehow. Earn it. Make it real again. Redeem the blood on his hands by chasing down the ghost of who he’d been before the war. Before the programming. Before her.

Maybe he was right. Maybe he should.

She didn’t have to understand it. But she did understand this: in order to move forward, he’d have to leave behind everything that dragged him backwards.

And that meant her.

She wasn’t like him.

She had never been like him.

She didn’t know who she was before the chair—but she knew, down in the marrow of it, that there wasn’t some golden past waiting to be recovered. No sunlit apartment. No name on a mailbox. No fucking dog called Spot.

All she had were fractured images. Shattered pieces of a life better left buried in the wreckage.

And every shard was edged in blood.

Steve Rogers wouldn’t want her near him. Wouldn’t want her—cold, tactical, brutal—anywhere close to the boy he grew up with. Not just because of what she’d done, but because of what she was. Too sharp. Too efficient. Too willing to end a threat before asking what it wanted.

There was no redemption arc for things like her. No dramatic comeback. No place at the table. Where Bucky was going—she didn’t belong.

Because she wasn’t someone trying to forget the Winter Soldier.

She still was one.

The realisation sliced through her, clean and deep. No warning. No anaesthetic. Just pain. That particular, familiar brand. The kind that didn’t bleed—just made it harder to breathe.

If Bucky wanted to be free, truly free, he had to let it all go.

All of it.

And she was part of that. A leftover from the same monster that had carved him hollow. Still haunted by the same training, still wired to respond. Even now, after everything, she slept like a weapon. Moved like one. Thought like one.

She was not soft.

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet back there,” Sam’s voice cut through the cabin, offhand and probing. “Run out of death threats?”

She didn’t answer.

The silence stretched. Stiffened. Started to bend into something ugly.

Then, from beside her—low and hoarse:

“She’s just tired.”

And she was. God, she was.

But she wouldn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Not with an unknown variable at the wheel and the whole mission shifting beneath her feet.

She let her head fall back against the seat, eyes catching the bruised lights of the city as it receded into distance. Just a glow now. Something artificial blotting out the stars.

So much had happened since they arrived.

And somehow—nothing had changed.

*

The countryside blurred past the window in long, liquid strokes of green and gold, morning light spilling across hedgerows and stone walls like it had somewhere to be. The hills rolled low and lazy, untamed by fences, the roads narrow and unlined, still slick with dew.

Grace didn’t need the signs.

She knew exactly where they were.

England.

It wasn’t just the left-hand driving, or the low sky, or the bite of cold in the air—it was the wetness. The smell of it. Grass and clay and old water, all of it soft-edged and too green, the kind of green that hadn’t seen real drought in a hundred years. It clung to the inside of the lungs. Saturated the bones.

Nowhere else on earth smelled like this.

It reminded her, strangely, of the woodland in Romania—where Bucky had first told her his name.

Not the landscape, but the feeling. Quiet. Verdant. A pause in the noise. And for the first time since stepping off the jet, something in her began to loosen.

She thought he would like it here.

The open sky. The absence of traffic.

Nothing to track. Nothing to monitor.

Just space.

Just quiet.

But then the car slowed. Turned.

And the feeling vanished.

The safehouse rose at the end of the drive like it had been dropped there from orbit—sleek, black-panelled, gleaming under the wet sky. Glass and steel and precise, geometric lines. An architectural thesis in “we don’t belong here.” Too perfect. Too clean. It leached the soul from the hill it stood on.

It didn’t fit the land.

Didn’t try to.

She said nothing as Sam parked and led them up the stone path, but her chest had already tightened. Every step inside confirmed it.

Cameras. Scanners. Pressure-sensitive locks.

Not just secured. Controlled.

The place was beautiful—calculatedly so—but it was the beauty of a scalpel, not a sanctuary. Cold to the touch. Built for eyes. Designed to impress. Or intimidate.

To surveil.

There was nothing soft here. Nothing worn by time or memory. No blankets with fraying edges. No walls that had absorbed laughter. No objects placed anywhere but where someone had decided they should go.

It was clinical. Calibrated.

A gilded cage.

And Grace, who had once been trained to make cages from breath and bone, didn’t need to rattle the bars to know they were real.

Sam confirmed what she already knew—what her bones had been whispering since the threshold.

“This way,” he said, voice looser now, casual in that infuriating way men sounded when they held home-field advantage. He gestured toward the wall of glass spanning the room. “Two-way. Bulletproof, obviously.”

Grace stared at her reflection—dark, distorted, not quite a silhouette, not quite herself.

“Doors are reinforced, retina-locked. Surveillance is Stark’s latest: motion sensors, perimeter grid, interior heat-mapping. There’s a panic room, too. Somewhere.”

Panic room.

Her throat closed.

She thought only of the chair.

Of reinforced doors and industrial locks. Of metal restraints warmed by body heat. Of the way they shut behind her. Every time.

She blinked. Kept walking.

Sam kept talking.

The house was too polished, too pristine. Marble countertops that reflected light too sharply. Black leather furniture with edges like sculpture, not meant for sitting. A glass fireplace set into the wall like a museum piece—probably voice-activated, probably synced to a touchscreen.

It didn’t feel expensive.

It felt obscene.

Like a reminder—just one more added to the stack—that she didn’t belong here.

So she focused.

On Bucky.

He leaned less now, upright under his own steam, but she felt the effort it took. Still pale beneath the faint shadow of stubble, his skin waxy with exertion. His hair hung damp around his jaw, still curling slightly at the ends from the jet’s lukewarm shower. Sam had insisted he clean up before getting in a confined space with him again. Apparently, his nose was delicate.

She led Bucky to the nearest sofa—lowered him gently, methodically, like he was still broken in places she couldn’t see. He let her. Sat stiffly, his hands curled over his knees.

Watching.

She didn’t meet his eyes. Not because she didn’t want to.

Because she couldn’t.

Instead, she knelt. Adjusted his jacket. Checked the bandage under the waistband of his borrowed sweatpants. The gauze was already soaked through—edges tinted rusty pink with old blood and plasma. It would need changing. They were running low on antiseptic. She’d have to—

“Think you can manage on your own for a few minutes?”

Sam’s voice cut through her thoughts.

She rose slowly, blinking. Looked at him.

But he wasn’t looking at her.

He was looking at Bucky.

And Bucky?

Bucky was still watching her.

She looked between them, caught on the uneven current in the room. Then she saw it—the faint, irritated rise of Sam’s eyebrow. Barely there, but deliberate.

He knew she’d missed something.

Of course he did.

He always knew.

It was just about the only thing he had over her. He wasn’t enhanced—that much she’d already confirmed—but he could read a room, and he liked to remind her she couldn’t. Subtle condescension worn like a badge.

She really didn’t like him.

Bucky tapped the side of her knee with his knuckles. Soft. “Go look around,” he murmured. “Pick a room.”

Pick a room.

Like she was a guest. Like she was staying.

Like she had a choice.

Her jaw locked.

She hesitated—only for a second—but it was enough.

Sam’s scoff was immediate. “You need me to hold your hand?”

Her head snapped toward him. “Want a shattered wrist?”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a question of anatomy. One she was willing to answer.

Sam’s jaw ticked, his expression tightening just enough to satisfy her.

Bucky didn’t intervene.

Grace cast a final glance his way. A flicker of something unreadable passed between them. Then she turned.

“Shout when he finally drops the bullshit saviour act,” she muttered, and walked out.

She’d held it together for ten hours. Ten hours of being a model citizen, just like Bucky had asked. No eye-rolling. No death threats. No talking back.

But even she had limits.

“Don’t touch anything you can’t afford to replace,” Sam called after her.

She didn’t answer. Just rolled her eyes and kept going, footfalls soundless on polished floors.

The hallway stretched long and sterile. Dark wood panelling broke up the space, interrupted only by abstract art that meant nothing to her—smears of colour, angular shapes that tried too hard to say something she couldn’t be bothered to interpret.

This wasn’t a home.

It was a statement.

And none of it had anything to do with her.

Sam’s voice drifted after her, just loud enough to catch.

“So, you managed to find someone who makes you seem friendly. Not sure if a congratulations is in order.”

She didn’t break stride.

She knew that tone. That careful balance of joke and jab, the offhand challenge dressed as charm. You heard it between people who didn’t like each other—but wouldn’t say it outright. Or couldn’t. Usually because of a third variable.

Since Sam had made his opinion of her crystal clear, she could only assume Bucky was that variable.

The insult burned hotter for what it implied: Bucky trusted Sam with her more than he trusted her with herself.

Still—he didn’t like Sam’s tone either.

His voice dropped low, quiet enough that a human ear would’ve missed it. “Does Steve know we’re here?”

A beat.

“No,” Sam answered. “But he will.” Then, more gently: “Give him a few days to finish saving the world. That’s what he does.”

At the end of the hall, she found a room. Large. Too large. It was cleaner than anything they’d stayed in across Romania, and colder for it. A king-sized bed sat in the centre, dressed in hospital-white sheets, corners tucked too tightly to be natural. Glass doors opened onto a balcony. The attached bathroom gleamed with chrome and marble.

It was expensive. Designed. Unlived in.

Nothing here belonged to her.

She stepped inside anyway.

The air smelled like lavender and some kind of high-end synthetic. Too perfect. The bed hadn’t been touched. The wardrobe was already open—empty. Sliding it closed revealed wall-to-wall mirrors that caught too much. Showed too much.

She didn’t look.

Grace sat on the edge of the bed. Just for a moment. But stillness didn’t come easy, not anymore.

She stood again and crossed to the bathroom. Shampoo and conditioner waited on the counter, neatly aligned, never used. They smelled sharp, clean—less feminine than she was used to. Richer. More intentional.

She ran her thumb over one of the labels.

The print was small. Precise. Like everything else here.

She could still hear them, faint through the walls. Bucky’s voice: low, contained. Giving Sam a stripped-down version of the truth. Where they’d been. What had happened. The bare minimum to explain the fallout.

Then Sam again.

“You’re safe here. When Steve finds out where you are, he’s gonna get you back to the States. To the compound. HYDRA isn’t knocking down that door.”

The compound.

Safe. A word she didn’t believe in.

But Bucky—he would be safe. If he stayed here, if he let Steve take over, if he finally gave up the burden of deciding everything for himself… he might make it.

And she—

She would stay. For now. Until Steve arrived. Until she could be certain. Until Bucky was where he was meant to be—back with someone he trusted, someone who still saw him as worth saving.

Then, she’d leave.

She set the bottles back down with care.

And for the first time since their feet hit solid ground, she let herself breathe.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Sam didn’t want Grace.

That much had been obvious from the beginning. He barely wanted Bucky—there was too much history there, too many things said in other people’s names. They’d started off on the wrong foot and hadn’t found steady ground, just kept moving out of necessity. But Grace?

In Sam’s mind, she had no excuse.

He’d approached them cautiously. Neutral stance, empty hands. No weapons drawn. And she’d answered with a knife and a warning. She hadn’t been activated. No code, no conditioning. Just her. That, he’d decided, was her natural state—volatile. A danger, full stop. It never occurred to him that she might’ve been scared. That exhaustion and paranoia didn’t always look like weakness. That trust, for someone like her, wasn’t a resource. It was a threat.

The suspicion bled through in every exchange. In the way he spoke about her. To her. How he watched her like he was waiting for the crack to split wide. Waiting for the justification to cut her loose.

And the more time they spent together, the more brittle things became. Tense. Inevitable. If Sam kept going, he was going to get the reaction he wanted.

Bucky wasn’t sure he could stop it.

Only plan how to deal with it.

Grace wasn’t his to manage. She wasn’t his responsibility, his soldier, his to reason with or command. He wouldn’t use what tether existed between them to corral her into submission just to make Sam more comfortable. That wasn’t loyalty. That was cruelty.

And yet—

Sam wasn’t wrong to be wary.

But it didn’t matter.

Because Bucky trusted her.

Not conditionally. Not cautiously. Not because he owed her his life—though he did.

He trusted her completely.

It wasn’t something he questioned. It wasn’t something he explained. He didn’t think he could.

It simply was.

She had saved him.

And now he’d seen exactly what that looked like.

The surveillance footage had come from Sam. He’d thrust the phone under Bucky’s nose the moment his fever lifted enough for his eyes to unblur and he could sit up longer than ten minutes. Said it was context. Said he needed to see the kind of woman he’d been dragging across borders, shielding from satellites, sleeping beside.

He expected hesitation. Regret. A flinch, at the very least.

But it didn’t come.

All it did was solidify what had been staring him in the face for weeks.

The SUV had still been behind them. That much he’d known before everything went black. He’d taken a slug to the thigh. Dropped the gun. The last thing he remembered was the look in her eyes—panic. Panic so sharp it stripped her bare.

And then darkness.

The video played out in grainy grey. A flicker of black against the road. The magnetic grenade was easy to miss unless you knew what to look for. He did. The impact lit the frame with flame, the car flipping end over end. He lost count of the rotations. His body throbbed just watching it, muscle memory recoiling.

The crash should’ve killed her. Should’ve snapped her spine, shattered her ribs, caved her skull.

But then—pixels shifted. A sliver of black, dragging itself from the wreckage. He couldn’t see her face, couldn’t see anything human in the blur of limbs and shadow, but she was moving. There was blood. He didn’t know whose. Didn’t care. She was alive.

The helicopter hung above like a reaper, its blades stuttering through the feed. She faced it.

Then moved.

Fast. Too fast for the camera to track cleanly. Her arm went back and forward in a single breath and the screen exploded into white. When it cleared, she was already sprinting for the second SUV—limping, but upright. The overhead view caught her just as she slipped inside the wreckage.

Seconds ticked by.

Then she emerged—bloodied, dragging a launcher, face split with something he couldn’t name.

She dropped to her knees.

Fired.

The recoil knocked her back.

She reloaded. Fired again.

And then—then came the part that mattered. The part he hadn’t been awake to see. Hadn’t asked for. Hadn’t ordered.

The part that wasn’t about duty. Or desperation.

It was the moment she chose.

She paused.

He saw it—not just with his eyes, but in the stillness that overtook her. The way her limbs sagged, only slightly, as the adrenaline bled out of her system. The shake she didn’t let surface. The sharp, empty edge that followed. Threats neutralised. Bodies cooling. But her? She was still burning. Drained to the wick. Running on instinct and the last fumes of rage.

There was time.

Time to decide.

He watched the frame hold on her, a frozen second that said everything.

She could have left.

She was still standing. Able-bodied. Breathing. She had the weapon. The field. The silence. She could’ve let them take him—saved herself, vanished into smoke before the next wave arrived. He was already half-dead, an easy loss. A mercy, even. He saw the moment she knew it. The sharp flicker of calculation unmistakable.

And the moment after.

The moment she didn’t.

She turned. Ran. Straight into the wreck. Straight for him.

He watched her drag him out—limp, covered in blood and metal shrapnel. She moved like she thought he’d break. Like he mattered. Like the wreckage might finish what the bullet didn’t.

It was careful. Gentle.

Too gentle to be a soldier’s reflex.

It wasn’t protocol. It wasn’t efficiency.

It was sentiment.

Loyalty.

Something like care.

She hadn’t saved him because it was strategic. It wasn’t. It was slow. Messy. Dangerous. Every second she spent on him invited risk.

But she stayed.

And that, more than anything, told him what mattered.

Maybe it was because she owed him—for Bucharest, for the way he’d given her a chance despite everything. A life-debt. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was just that she didn’t want to be alone again. Didn’t want to lose the one person who didn’t look at her like a weapon.

It didn’t matter.

Any of those reasons were human. Not soldat.

She had found shelter. Stopped the bleeding. Seen him through fever and infection. He remembered the weight of her hands, shifting the blankets. The cool press of a cloth at his brow. Her voice, low and constant, even when she thought he couldn’t hear.

He remembered one thing above all else.

She stayed.

She never left. Not once.

Sam didn’t trust her.

He didn’t have to.

Because Bucky did.

And he wasn’t going to let her go.

He wouldn’t let her be alone again.

He would talk to Steve when he came. He would explain everything—start to finish. He’d show him the footage, the aftermath, the proof that she wasn’t what she looked like. That she’d earned better. That she wasn’t dangerous—she was trying. Failing sometimes, stumbling her way through things that were innate to most human beings, but she was trying. And coming from her, that was everything.

Steve would see it.

Wouldn’t he?

Wouldn’t he look at all of it—the wreckage, the blood, the aftermath—and understand how far she’d come? Wouldn’t he see the sharpness for what it was: a shield? Wouldn’t he see what Bucky saw?

Or would he just see another shadow? Another broken weapon built by HYDRA and loosed on the world?

That was the fear, wasn’t it?

Not that Steve would condemn her—but that he’d condemn him. For trusting her. For caring about her in some half-formed way that didn’t have a name yet. That Steve would finally look him in the eye and see what everyone else had always seen. The edge. The failure. The irreparable damage.

The end of the line.

But the truth?

Bucky didn’t need Steve to save him anymore.

Maybe that was the shift he hadn’t seen coming. Maybe that was why the idea of being cast aside no longer clawed at him like it used to. He wasn’t sure if he could be saved. He didn’t know if there was anything left of him worth trying for.

But maybe she could be.

Maybe that’s what all of this had been moving toward. The last thing he could do that meant something. Not penance. Not redemption. Not a way out.

A purpose.

She was worth that.

And none of that came from the video. That was only a fragment. The truth was quieter. Found in smaller moments of every day.

Like when Sam had made him shower on the jet—insisting that if he was going to sit within five feet of anyone for the next twelve hours, he needed to be less of a biohazard. Bucky hadn’t wanted to admit it, but the second he peeled off his clothes, he’d known.

Grace hadn’t undressed him.

Not even the parts that made sense. His jeans—still crusted with blood—had been cut open at the bandage and left there. His shirt. His belt. His socks. She’d worked around every last piece, careful, deliberate, even when it made her job harder. She’d cleaned him in layers, cleaned around his wounds like she didn’t want to breach anything personal.

Because he’d told her, once, that you didn’t show your body to people you didn’t trust.

She’d remembered.

She’d applied it like law.

Never asked for recognition. Never expected credit. Just did it—quietly, methodically, like it was non-negotiable. Like his boundaries mattered. Like he mattered.

It stunned him, even now. The clarity of it. The purity of that act. Unspoken, but not unnoticed.

If Steve knew—if Sam knew—then they wouldn’t question her. They couldn’t.

Because that was the kind of thing you couldn’t fake.

And if they still didn’t see it?

Then he’d make them.

Bucky pulled the bag onto the bed and unzipped it, fingers moving slow. Still stiff. Still clumsy.

He didn’t know what he was looking for. Reassurance, maybe. Evidence that wasn’t so… personal. Something to silence the part of him that still couldn’t believe he’d woken up with anything at all—let alone this. But he wasn’t going to leave it to faith. Not with what was coming. Not with what he might have to defend.

He dug through layers. Clothing. Water bottles. Spare parts. Everything intact. Everything exactly as he’d packed it.

Because of her.

Because she’d grabbed it in the chaos, slung it over her shoulder, and made sure he still had something to wake up to. Not just survival. Not just breath in his lungs. This. His life. What little of it he’d scraped together with his own hands.

Why?

Why carry this, when she could’ve run?

When the sky was coming down and she had seconds to choose—why carry him?

There was no logic in it, no tactical advantage. It hadn’t been efficient or clean. It had been human. Something gut-wired and unnameable.

He swallowed and reached deeper.

The notebook was at the bottom. Worn leather cover, corners curled. The paper inside smelled faintly of smoke, like everything else that had been in that car. He ran a thumb down the spine and opened it.

Everything was there.

He flipped to her page.

There was something new.

Mother .

He froze.

Turned the page. Another line.

Lipstick .

It hit harder than it should have. Harder than he expected. Because it meant she’d gone back. Looked. Tried to fill in the blanks. Tried to claim something of her own, the way he had. Her handwriting was tight, almost clinical, but the effort was there.

And he remembered.

In the haze of fever. In the ache of half-conscious nights, too hot and too blurred to hold onto anything—he remembered her voice. Telling him. Explaining.

It wasn’t a mission report. It wasn’t a list of targets or coded directives. It was just… her. A piece of her he hadn’t earned, but she’d given it anyway.

He closed the book gently. Let it rest on the covers beside him.

This was who she really was.

This was his Grace.

And even though it was late—

He had to see her.

She hadn’t looked at him since the car.

Not properly. Not the way she used to—not with challenge, but with curiosity, and that flicker of something behind her eyes that insisted on being seen. Now there was just stillness, measured and unnatural. Like the air before a storm, or a breath before impact.

It wasn’t fear of the future. It was something else.

She was retreating.

Shrinking back into the place he’d dragged her from inch by inch. Back to silence. Obedience. Back to whatever darkness HYDRA had carved out for her and called shelter.

And he had to stop it.

The hallway blurred as he moved, each step heavier than the last. Pain licked up his leg, dull and steady—the painkillers thinning in his blood. The adrenaline was long gone. All that was left was grit and willpower and the ache of a body trying to heal too fast.

By the time he reached her door, his palm was braced flat against the wall, his breath caught somewhere between lungs and throat. He didn’t knock. Didn’t call her name. Just stood there, caught in the quiet.

But she knew.

He heard her shift. Sheets brushing skin. A change in the rhythm of her breath, barely perceptible unless you knew to listen. He did.

There was a pause—too long to be casual, too short to be indecision—before the door cracked open.

She stood framed in it, backlit by the dim overheads.

The robe hung loose on her, and so did everything else.

Her expression was neutral. Too neutral. She wasn’t blank, wasn’t empty—but she was holding. Braced for something. Her gaze touched his, then moved past it.

This wasn’t the Grace he knew when they were alone. Not the woman who rolled her eyes at him, who met every silence with a sharp quip and every brush of kindness with suspicion and reluctant loyalty.

This was someone who thought she’d been left behind again.

He exhaled, adjusting his stance against the frame.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice ragged from the climb.

She didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t step back.

But she didn’t close the door either.

His leg throbbed—a dull, stubborn ache—but he didn’t shift. The pain grounded him. Gave him something to stand on. He’d wait here all night if he had to. Grace responded to pressure in fractions. Apply too much, she snapped. Not enough, she disappeared. She had to be waited out.

She nodded. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe her. Not for a second. But she wasn’t giving him anything else, and he wasn’t sure how to ask for it without pushing her farther away.

He searched her face but found nothing but that terrifying stillness. Control. Her hands were at her sides, her shoulders square. She’d been like this with Sam all day and now it was aimed at him.

He tried to think—tried to remember how he used to reach her. Before the car, before the blood, before the near miss that had twisted something between them that he didn’t know how to set straight.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, too fast. Too awkward.

Her brow twitched. Barely. “No.”

“Do you—need anything?”

There was a pause. A flicker. Something heavy behind her eyes, something hollow.

“No.”

His throat worked. He pressed his lips together, frustration and something like grief tightening behind his ribs. She was shutting him out, brick by brick. Walling off whatever lived behind those grey eyes—and every word he spoke only seemed to help her do it.

She’d been closed off before. He’d met her that way. But even in the worst of it, there had been a pulse—a heat, a defiance. Some unyielding flicker of life that meant she hadn’t surrendered yet.

Now she just looked tired.

He didn’t want to provoke her. Didn’t want to drag her into an argument she couldn’t afford to lose. But doing nothing felt worse. He was clawing, but found no purchase.

The silence hung between them, taut as wire.

Then she said, soft and flat, “Goodnight, Bucky.”

And shut the door.

He stared at the wood for a beat too long.

Raised his fist to knock again.

Then turned with a sigh.

His room was colder than he remembered when he returned. Clean. Wide. And soulless. The kind of place made for people who didn’t need comfort, just space.

And that’s what he’d always been.

He lay down, but sleep didn’t come easy.

Despite the days he’d spent unconscious, his body still ached with exhaustion—but his mind wouldn’t settle. It ran loops. Worst-case scenarios. What he should’ve said. What he would say tomorrow. How to reach her without scaring her deeper into the dark.

She was fine.

She was fine for tonight.

There was nothing catastrophic that could happen in eight hours. No decisions to be made before morning. That’s what he told himself. Over and over.

Nothing good ever came after midnight, anyway.

He lay still in the dark, listening—for her footsteps, for the creak of the mattress, for the quiet drag of breath. Any sound to prove she was still there.

Because he wasn’t leaving her behind.

He’d made that choice already.

Now he just had to make her believe it.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The chair.

The straps.

The hands.

She couldn’t move.

They never let her move.

“Again.”

The voice wrapped around her ribs like smoke—thick, cloying, known. It had no mouth, no face, just weight. It pressed into her temples. Coiled behind her eyes.

Her head snapped back against the metal.

Teeth cut through her lip.

She couldn’t breathe—her neck locked so tight she thought her spine would shatter from the strain.

God, let it.

Let it crack open. Let the pain pour out.

“Again.”

Her body jolted. Air scraped down her throat in broken shreds. She knew what came next.

The machine started to hum.

Static crawled through the walls.

A light flared above her—too bright, too fast—and she couldn’t shut her eyes in time.

The pain wasn’t pain. It was severing.

Something sharp drove between her eyes and kept going. Cracked her skull open from the inside.

Split her thoughts in half.

She felt herself go.

Her mother’s voice—soft and fading—slipped through her fingers. Gone.

Something slammed into her sternum. From inside. No impact. No blow. Just pressure. Crushing.

The lights flickered. Buzzed. Flashed like a strobe in a sealed box.

Each pulse came with pain. A new one. A worse one.

Like being torn apart and stapled back together, again and again, in the wrong order.

Her body seized. Strained against the leather. Her skin screamed. She could smell it—blood and heat and something burnt.

A hand found her jaw and yanked.

Her face turned too fast. The strap cut into her temple.

“Do you know your name?”

She tried to answer, but the word caught somewhere behind her teeth.

The grip tightened.

“Say it, soldat.”

I don’t have one.

“You are nothing.”

The voice changed. Colder. Closer. More real.

South African accent, thick like oil.

No.

Not him. Not now—

“You belong to me, liefie.”

Fingers crept along her thigh.

Her breath hitched. “No.”

It sounded wrong. Small. Childish.

The hand climbed. Traced her ribs. Followed the line of her collarbone like it was marking terrain.
Others joined it. Too many. Too many hands.

“She’s a quick learner.”

“Beautiful little thing.”

“Do you like that?”

The voices multiplied. Overlapped. Laughed. Whispered.

None of them touched her.

All of them touched her.

Her limbs didn’t work, but she felt everything.

Her body wasn’t hers, but the pain—

The pain was.

I am nothing.

I am nothing.

I am—

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Bucky woke up wrong.

The sheets were clean. Too clean. The mattress too firm beneath him. The air carried no scent—no gun oil, no damp concrete, no blood. The silence wasn’t stillness—it was staged.

He lay there a moment, eyes open, trying to pinpoint it.

The bed was too big. Too cold.

The wrong kind of quiet.

And then—

A sound.

Soft. Strangled.

He sat up, sharp and immediate. The blankets slid from his chest in a rush of synthetic cotton. He barely felt it.

Another sound followed. Thicker. A choked breath, caught in the back of a throat.

Not a scream. Not loud enough for Sam to hear from his room.

But Bucky heard it.

His body moved before thought caught up. Legs swung over the edge of the bed. A shot of pain flared through his thigh—dull, deep—but he didn’t stop.

His heart was already pounding.

He staggered upright.

Another sound. Muffled.

Then words.

“No—no—”

The kind of no that didn’t mean no to a question.

The kind that clawed at the dark.

So much for Stark’s impenetrable fortress.

He rolled his metal shoulder, shook the joint out. It clicked into place with a hiss.

Then he limped for the hallway.

Straight for her door.

He didn’t knock.

“Grace—”

He wasn’t sure what he expected to find. Maybe the worst. HYDRA. An agent.

But what he saw stopped him in the doorway.

Moonlight carved its way across the bed, washing her in silver. She looked spectral—unreal. A girl pinned beneath some invisible weight. Sweat slicked her forehead, soaking the dark hair that clung to her temples. Her face was twisted into something unrecognisable. Her mouth moved, trembling lips forming words that didn’t reach sound.

Her arms flinched against her sides, curled in like she was trying to fold in on herself. Her shoulders spasmed. Her jaw locked. The tendons in her neck strained.

And then—

“No, please—”

Barely audible. Barely her voice.

His breath caught.

She wasn’t fighting. Not in the way she usually did. No thrashing, no lashing out. This wasn’t the aftermath of a mission or some violent memory. This was worse.

Her body shook with restraint. Like she was holding herself down. Like someone else was.

One hand clawed across her chest, dragging red lines through the sweat, her nails raking skin in a jagged arc. Her hips jerked once, her legs twisting the sheets around her thighs.

His blood ran cold.

She was trapped. Deep under.

He crossed the room in three strides, dropped to his knees beside the bed.

Her skin gleamed under the thin wash of moonlight, damp and pale, trembling with aftershocks. He hovered his hand above her shoulder—bare, slick with cold sweat. Touching her was a risk. If she woke up swinging, he wasn’t sure he’d be fast enough to block it. His leg still screamed when he moved too quick.

It didn’t matter.

He pressed his palm to her shoulder. Gently.

“Grace,” he said, low. “Grace. Wake up.”

She jerked hard, a full-body flinch that nearly threw him off balance. But she didn’t wake. Her eyes stayed shut, her mouth moving in silent panic.

“Come on,” he murmured, firmer this time. “You have to wake up.”

He gave her shoulder a shake. Not rough, not jarring. Just enough.

Her breath caught—then shattered. She gasped like she’d been drowning. Sat up like she’d been shocked, chest heaving, hair tangled across her face.

For one split second, she didn’t know him.

He saw it in the way she reeled back, arms flailing, trying to tear herself out of his reach. Her palms struck his chest, weak but wild.

“Grace—Grace!” He caught her wrists, gently, firm enough to stop her hurting herself. “Stop. Stop. It’s okay. It’s me. It’s Bucky.”

She blinked, unseeing. Her lips moved, forming the shape of his name like she didn’t know what it meant.

“Bucky?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, breath shallow. “I’m here.”

He let go of one hand to guide her fingers upward, resting her palm flat to his cheek.

“Look. Feel. I’m real.”

Her touch wavered, shaking down his face, his throat, over the bare skin of his chest where his shirt had ridden down. Her nails scraped slightly—like she didn’t trust the softness of the contact, like she needed pain to confirm it.

“Buck—”

Her voice cracked. And then—

She broke.

The sob tore out of her like something dying. No walls. No caution. No control.

She didn’t hesitate. She threw herself into him, arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder, her body racked with the kind of sobbing that came from deep inside. That ancient kind of grief. Primal. Quiet only because it had nowhere else to go.

He froze.

He had seen her bleed. He had seen her afraid. He had seen her rage, seen her vicious and silent and deadly.

But he had never seen her cry.

Not like this.

Not like someone whose soul had just come back wrong.

His chest went tight.

She was folding in on him, clinging with a desperation that didn’t suit her, that hurt to witness. A woman who had survived everything—knives, commands, men like gods—and now she shook like a child in his arms, too small for her own skin.

“Please, I just—” A sob. “—I can feel—” a cough, “—Bucky, please—”

His brain stuttered, then caught up. Slowly, gently, he shifted to hold her better—arms sliding around her back to pull her up fully, so she wasn’t hanging off the bed like wreckage.

He held her with a fraction of the force she clung to him with. Her fingers twisted in his shirt, her nose digging hard into his collarbone. The breath that hit his chest was wet. Broken.

Fuck.

He exhaled slowly and brought one hand to the back of her head.

He didn’t know if he was doing this right. Didn’t know how to hold someone like this. Didn’t know if she wanted to be held at all. But she wasn’t pulling away.

No instincts came. Maybe HYDRA had cut them out. Maybe he’d never had them to begin with. All he could do was stay here, stay present, and try to read her in real time.

He tightened his grip slightly.

She exhaled—shaky, but whole. Something in her loosened.

So he kept the pressure.

“You’re safe,” he murmured.

She nodded—barely. The movement small enough he only felt it where her forehead rested beneath his chin. He felt dampness soaking through his shirt.

Pressure. Reassurance. That, he could do.

It wouldn’t be fast.

And it tore at him.

But this wasn’t about him.

He turned his head and pressed his mouth into her hair—not a kiss, but close. A touch. An apology. A vow. She was safe. His touch was safe. She could break and he wouldn’t lose the pieces.

He should’ve known. He should’ve woken up sooner. They always shared the bed. Always. The space was too sterile, too separate. Too fucking cold.

He should’ve known.

She’d never been okay. Not really. Not even in Bucharest. But she’d always hidden it so well. Until now. Now, for the first time, she couldn’t. Whether it was soul-deep exhaustion, the strangeness of the house, or the looming weight of Steve—she’d hit the wall.

And she wasn’t pretending.

Couldn’t anymore.

She needed this. Needed to feel it. And he would let her.

He didn’t let go. Not when the sobs quieted into hiccups. Not when the hiccups became slow, uneven breaths. Not when her fingers uncurled from his shirt.

He kept holding on.

And would, until she let him go.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The sun had risen at some point, but Grace couldn’t recall precisely when. Time was passing strangely. Without form.

She watched the light shift across the wall—bleeding through the trees outside, breaking into dappled patterns across the floor, then the blankets, then them. It moved slow. Gentle. The world felt suspended. Breathless. As if it were holding still, just for a moment longer. Giving her grace that she had never earned.

She felt his breath first.

Slow. Even. The rise and fall of his chest against her side. The heat of him pressed into her, wrapped around her.

She was tucked into his body, head resting just below his collarbone, her legs curled loosely over his. His arms were heavy around her—solid and still, anchoring her like roots. At some point, he’d leaned back against the headboard, and she’d leaned with him, half-draped across his lap between his legs.

They hadn’t moved since.

She should have.

She should have shifted. Should have pulled away. There were a hundred reasons why. But she couldn’t. Because the second she moved, this moment would be over.

And she didn’t know if she’d ever feel this safe again.

The tears had long since dried, leaving stiff salt-tracks along her cheeks, not yet cracked by motion. Her face was blank now, but the weight of it still clung to her. Her ribs ached with the memory of sobbing—like something had been exorcised out of her. Through her. Her throat felt scraped raw, each breath dragged over it like cloth on glass.

She had broken.

She hadn’t known she was capable.

It felt like there had been moments—years ago, lifetimes ago—where a collapse like that should’ve happened. When she’d screamed, begged, pleaded. In the beginning. When she was small. When she thought pain might be bargained with. But nothing had come of it. Nothing had ever changed.

So eventually, she stopped.

Because crying hadn’t been efficient. Hadn’t been obedient.

But last night—she’d shattered. In his arms.

And he’d held her through every fractured second.

She remembered the desperation in her hands, clawing at him just to feel something real. Something warm and living. Because he was the opposite of everything that haunted her. Of the hands that took. The voices that dehumanised. The straps. The knife.

Bucky was the one who had tried to piece her back together without ever asking what broke her in the first place.

She had needed him.

And it terrified her.

Because she wasn’t supposed to need. Because she had told herself she would stay only long enough to keep him safe—then disappear. Because she had believed she was the one doing the protecting.

But in the end, it had been her who faltered.

Her who took from him.

Again.

And he let her.

A single tear slipped free. It trailed slow down her cheek, catching briefly at her jaw before falling soundless onto her thigh.

She inhaled sharply.

She hadn’t thought she had any tears left.

Grace made a note—quiet and cruel—to stop thinking she knew anything at all.

Her chest ached. Not the sharp, urgent pain she was used to. Not the warning signs of injury. Not knives. Not bullets. This was something else. Older. Heavier than anyone could carry. A hollow kind of pain that settled behind the breastbone and whispered that survival wasn’t always the same as living.

She had to speak. The silence had stretched too long—thick and suspended, cocooning them like a shroud. A bubble. Fragile and impossibly loud in the quiet. It was starting to pulse in her ears, warbling with her thoughts like it could hear them. Like it didn’t want to break either.

But she had to say something. Now. Or she never would.

Her throat burned. Her voice felt like it had to tear its way out.

“I can’t stay.”

It came out thick. Raw. Too loud.

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t tense. He didn’t breathe any differently. It was as though he’d already known.

“Then we won’t,” he said softly. “We’ll leave—”

She shook her head. Eyes squeezed shut.

It was everything she wanted to hear. But that was exactly the problem. The monster couldn’t win.

“I can’t go with you.”

The words burned on her tongue. Bitter. Acidic. Wrong.

She sat up, wiping at her swollen eyes like she could erase the evidence. The traitorous tear. The broken edges. Pretend she hadn’t unravelled right in front of him.

Bucky loosened his arms but didn’t pull away. He shifted with her, slow, careful—as though backing out of something sacred. She felt the loss of his warmth instantly. Shame curled through her before she could suppress it. The cold climbed her spine like shadowed hands, greedy and waiting, ready to drag her back down.

She pulled the collar of the robe tighter over her shoulder. It had never really served its purpose—less garment, more apology. But it was what she had.

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Not yet.

Instead, she fixed her gaze outside the window. The fields were still washed in morning amber, trees and wildflowers glowing like fire through mist. The bushes were heavy with bloom, their leaves trembling in the breeze.

It was beautiful. Honest. The kind of beauty that didn’t lie. That didn’t ask for anything in return.

She memorised it. All of it. Committed it to the back of her mind where it might outlast the rest.

And then—slowly—she turned her head.

His eyes were already on her. They always were. Crystalline, but not cold. Fluid. Brimming with things he didn’t say. Soft and fierce, all at once. And guarded. Always guarded.

There was too much there for her to look directly into. She dropped her gaze to his skin. He was still pale. Cheeks sunken. Shadows beneath his eyes deepened from travel, pain, fear.

Look what you’ve done to him.

“I’m not—good for you.”

It slipped out. A half-formed thought, unfinished until it crossed her lips. Maybe it had always been there, dormant. Waiting for the right crack in her defences to bleed through.

His brow furrowed. His mouth opened slightly—but he didn’t speak.

So she did. Because if she stopped, she’d lose the nerve to finish.

“I’m not like you.” Her voice wobbled. “I don’t have a past to return to. There’s no version of me I want to be again. I am soldat.”

His lips parted. She raised a hand—sharp, trembling.

“I don’t have a home. I don’t have friends. I don’t have a Steve.” Her throat worked, swallowing hard. “I don’t have a second chance.”

He was still silent. But she saw it in the way his jaw flexed. The way his shoulders tensed.

“I don’t get to be better,” she whispered. “And if I stay with you…”

Her breath caught. Her hands were shaking.

“If I stay with you, you won’t get to be better either.”

That struck something. She saw it flicker across his face. Quiet and sudden, like an old wound reopening.

“You were a hero,” she said, and this time it hurt to say it. “You fix things. You save people. That’s what you’re meant to do.”

She looked at him, really looked.

“And with me,” she said softly, bitterly, “all you’ll ever do is run.”

His flesh hand moved first—slow, deliberate. No command in the gesture. No force. Just fingers, tentative and warm, reaching for her jaw. A question, not a touch. An invitation she could deny.

As though she’d flinch.

As though she should.

But she didn’t.

She exhaled sharply. Her own hand came up, pressing over his to hold it there. Anchoring him. Anchoring herself. His palm was warm. Too warm. Her pulse thundered beneath his fingers.

His thumb traced the edge of her cheekbone. Gentle. Steady. As if he could erase every word she’d just said. As if he could smooth the scar tissue from her thoughts.

Their eyes locked.

He didn’t look away. Not once.

“The only one living in the past,” he said quietly, “is you.”

The words hit her like a body blow. A shudder passed through her chest, and tears swelled too fast to stop. She leaned in without thinking, forehead pressing against his. Her eyes shut tight. She didn’t know what she was doing. What she was asking for.

But he didn’t move.

His breath brushed her skin, soft and warm. The scent of him—soap and sweat and something grounding—wrapped around her like a balm. His legs bracketed hers, not to restrain, but to keep her here. Present. Close.

She didn’t know what this was. A thank you? A question? A need she didn’t understand? A goodbye she couldn’t bear to speak?

Whatever it was, she stayed.

No weapons. No war. No escape plan.

Just this.

Just now.

The silence between them stretched and stretched—until it wasn’t silence anymore. It was breath. It was heartbeat. It was presence.

Then, finally, he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. His hand still on her face. Still holding.

And then, softer than she’d ever heard him:

“Don’t forget.”

His thumb swept over the tear tracing her cheek.

“I taught you everything you know.”

Her brows knit slightly. She opened her mouth to speak, confused—but he was already ahead of her.

“You run from me,” he murmured, voice so low it felt like it lived in her spine, “and I’ll find you.”

A pause. One breath. Maybe his. Maybe hers. Shared, either way.

“Every time.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The house was quiet when Bucky stepped downstairs.

Sunlight had taken the place of shadow, filtering through the wide glass windows, catching on polished marble and casting sharp reflections across the floor. It smelled like coffee. And something faintly sweet.

Sam was already there.

He sat at the kitchen counter, one hand curled around a mug, the other scrolling idly through his phone. He hadn’t looked up, but Bucky saw the shift—the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his spine straightened, too slow to be casual.

Bucky stopped at the bottom step. Exhaled. Then crossed into the kitchen.

He’d come down for a reason. He needed to ask.

However painful it would be.

But the second he opened his mouth, Sam got there first.

“Jesus, man. You move too damn quiet. Is that a choice—just like keeping everyone on their toes?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

He leaned against the counter, folding his arms. Dry. Unbothered. Playing the same game.

“Is there any women’s clothing here?”

That got Sam’s attention.

His head snapped up. Eyebrows climbed like they’d been yanked by a wire. Then—slowly—the corner of his mouth began to twitch.

“Damn,” he muttered, setting his phone down. “You were on your deathbed two days ago, now you’re tearing off—”

“Sam.” Low. Sharp. A warning.

Sam, to his credit, only held up his hands, palms out, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.
“Alright, alright. No judgement. Just making an observation.”

Bucky didn’t return it.

They weren’t friends. Barely on better footing than him and Grace. And what Sam was implying—casually, glibly—wasn’t just wrong. It was inappropriate. Disrespectful in a way he wouldn’t allow.

He exhaled through his nose, letting the posture drop.

“I’ll sort something out. She can take whatever she needs from my closet in the meantime.”

That was the closest Sam would come to an apology. Bucky took it. Let his shoulders ease, just slightly. Gave a short nod.

It was a start. Someone had to get along with him, or it was going to be a long damn wait for Steve.

But once that was done—once the necessity was handled—he realised, for the first time in months, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He’d spent eight months in forward motion. Running. Planning. Teaching. Guarding. Every hour accounted for. Every breath part of a contingency.

Now?

Now there was nothing.

Nothing but time. And he’d had too much of that last night.

Sam must’ve picked up on it. After a pause, he huffed out a sigh.

“You’re freaking me out, man. Just sit down.”

Bucky didn’t move.

Sam raised a brow. “Come on. Sit. You looming like that is killing my vibe. And I was having a pleasant morning.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes slightly. Then dragged out the chair opposite him, loud and graceless, and sat.

Without a word, Sam slid a bottle of water and a blister pack across the counter.

Bucky caught them in his metal hand, turning the pills over like he might decipher their chemical structure by weight alone. Plain. No markings. No label. Just white ovals in a cheap foil strip.

His eyes flicked to Sam.

Then back to the pills.

Yeah. No.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m very secure in myself, but Steve could still kick my ass. It’s not a laxative. It’s what you took yesterday. The doctor just can’t prescribe anything to you in the usual way—guess you understand why—so no label.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

“Just take the damn pills. You’ll thank me when you can walk without a limp.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He watched him for a long, silent beat, then cracked the cap on the water and swallowed four of them dry anyway.

Sam gave a single nod. Like that settled something. Like now they could both pretend they weren’t still primed and ready for the next round.

The silence returned, thinner than before, stretched taut across the kitchen.

Birdsong drifted through the trees outside. The pipes above ticked and groaned with the groan of water in the walls. Somewhere, a door gave a soft creak. The house breathed around them, mechanical and indifferent.

Neither spoke.

Bucky wasn’t built for small talk. And if Sam was, he wasn’t interested in practising it this morning.

Time stretched long enough for the coffee in Sam’s mug to cool before he finally muttered, half under his breath, “Do you eat, or...?”

Bucky blinked, caught off guard.

With an exaggerated sigh, Sam reached into the bowl on the counter and slid something across the counter. A protein bar. Salted caramel.

He looked at it. Then at Sam.

But the man was already back to sipping his mug, eyes on his phone, apparently unbothered. It wasn’t a peace offering. Just something functional. Mechanical.

Here. Eat.

Bucky peeled the wrapper. The paper crinkled loud in the stillness. He bit down and chewed, slow. His jaw protested, stiff with healing and fatigue, but he kept going.

Halfway through, Sam spoke again. The words were quiet. Unremarkable. Barely lifted from the hum of background noise.

“She okay?”

His chewing slowed. Jaw locked. The tension that had been dozing in his limbs snapped awake all at once.

That wasn’t just a question.

Assumptions were one thing. Offhand remarks—teeth bared in sarcasm—those he could shrug off. But this was different. Too precise. Too pointed.

He looked up and met his eyes.

No grin. No teasing lift of his brows. Sam wasn’t smirking anymore.

Just still. Cautious. Neutral in that way someone gets when they’re waiting for the wrong answer.

Which meant the comment earlier wasn’t a joke. It was bait.

And Bucky had taken it.

No, she wasn’t okay.

She hadn’t slept. She’d cried for hours. Sobbed like she was breaking apart from the inside out. She thought she was a monster—believed it, down to the marrow. And one conversation didn’t undo that. One promise didn’t make it safe.

She’d agreed to stay, but only because he’d threatened her.

He hadn’t meant it that way. Not really. But that didn’t change what it had sounded like.

Because that was the truth, wasn’t it?

He was the monster.

And he was fine with that. He’d earned it. He’d told her—directly or not—that her instincts were wrong. Twisted and untrustworthy. All the while, he’d held himself apart, like his brokenness was something nobler. Something cleaner.

The sooner she was with Steve, the better.

She’d be safe. Under real guidance. Free of him.

She wouldn’t forgive him for the lie, but that was fair. He didn’t deserve it.

Bucky swallowed the last of the bar. Then, flatly:

“She’s fine.”

The words landed like a slammed door.

Sam clocked the tone. Nodded once. Didn’t follow up.

But he didn’t believe him.

The shift in the room was subtle, but unmistakable. The kind that settled low in the chest and made everything feel just slightly off-centre.

It was still quiet.

Bucky felt it the moment Grace entered the kitchen. Her hair was damp at the ends, curling slightly where it clung to her collar. She wore the robe—the only clean thing she had. It dwarfed her, the belt cinched too tightly around her waist as if she could make herself smaller, less seen, less real.

She paused at the threshold. Just for a moment. Just long enough to read the air.

Her eyes swept over the space, catching the mood instantly. There was something in the set of her shoulders—braced, uncertain—that told him she’d picked up on the unspoken shift. Her gaze flicked between them, quick and cautious, then landed on Sam. Not him.

And there it was. The faintest flush across her cheeks. A whisper of colour beneath her skin. Gone almost as soon as it appeared.

She didn’t meet Bucky’s eyes. Whether by choice or instinct, she turned to Sam instead. Maybe it was self-preservation. Maybe she wanted a fresh start. Or maybe, for once, she was offering the chance for someone else to choose something better.

Sam, to his credit, didn’t miss it. His posture shifted, a flicker of restraint pulling tight across his shoulders.

“Morning,” he said. Tentative. It wasn’t exactly kind, but the usual edge was missing. The words landed softer than expected.

Grace inclined her head. “Good morning.”

Sam reached across the counter and offered her a protein bar. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A gesture without expectation.

Apparently, that was his way of communicating with Winter Soldiers.

“Hungry?”

She blinked once. Then looked to Bucky, not for approval—just out of habit, perhaps. He didn’t move. Didn’t answer for her.

This was hers to accept.

After a beat, she crossed the kitchen and took it. No thank you. No glance back. Just motion.

It wasn’t a peace offering. It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was five minutes without open hostility, and neither of them had burst into flames. The world continued turning.

That, in itself, was something.

It wouldn’t last. Not if someone pushed—which they would. But it might hold for a little while.

And that was more than they’d had yesterday.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Bucky hadn’t returned to his own room. Not once in three days.

There had been no conversation about it. No awkward clarifications, no quiet exchange in the dark. No decision made and spoken aloud. It simply happened.

They shared a room now. A bed. They slept beside each other.

Not out of necessity. There were other beds. Other rooms. But they chose to stay together.

No explanations offered. None needed.

But that didn’t mean Grace slept.

Bucky had soothed the aftermath—he didn’t stop the nightmares. He’d held her when she woke gasping, steadied her breathing with his own, offered quiet grounding in the form of a hand on her back, a forehead resting lightly against hers. But the damage was already done by then. As though there had once been a wall between her and the memories, but now it was eroding. Wearing away. Becoming thinner and thinner as the days passed.

And they were getting worse.

She blamed the house. The sense of waiting breathed into every wall. The looming presence of expectation—of Steve’s arrival. The compound. And everything that would come after.

She blamed Sam, too. The way he watched her. Not overtly—not with a hand on a weapon or an accusation in his voice—but with a kind of measured suspicion. Like he was waiting for the switch to flip. Like he thought any moment she’d revert to programming and wake up not knowing who she was, where she was, or who she was lying next to.

Like she might not wake up at all until she’d returned herself to the chair. Mission complete. Mind scrubbed. Purpose fulfilled.

She had never feared anything more in her life.

So she stayed awake. Every night. Just in case.

The ceiling above was matte white, dappled faintly by the shadows of passing branches outside the balcony windows. Early light spilled in at the edges. The blankets were warm, tucked to her chin. But his body beside her was warmer.

Bucky lay turned toward her, arm resting along the mattress—not touching her, never touching her. Not since that night. Not since she’d sobbed herself hoarse against his chest and finally, finally, broken. Now, even in sleep, he gave her space. A quiet, respectful distance. One she didn’t ask for. One she didn’t know if she wanted.

His borrowed shirt was loose around her frame, soft cotton drawn tight where her fingers gripped it over her ribs.

She could hear the faintest whistle in his breathing. A softness at the end of each exhale. His sleep was deep here. Slower to rouse. As though, after decades of vigilance and hollow rest, he was finally letting himself have this—these hours of unconsciousness, unguarded and uninterrupted.

She should have felt the same.

And yet, she was awake.

The safehouse was—reluctantly—living up to its name.

Grace could admit that to herself now.

It was secure. Locked down, monitored, reinforced in ways that exceeded her expectations. She’d spent the first forty-eight hours mapping the layout while Bucky slept off the last of the fever and painkillers. Cataloguing every potential breach point. Testing the integrity of the locks. Identifying the camera blind spots—of which, irritatingly, there were very few.

Because Sam, infuriatingly, was competent.

He was always working. Always watching the perimeter feeds, fingers tapping steadily at the laptop, lips pressed thin in concentration. No distractions. No slack. Just sharp, focused diligence. He was as much a soldier as she was—just… how soldiers were meant to be.

And he wasn’t picking fights with her anymore.

Not overtly. Not with the same disdain he’d met her with when she first stood over Bucky, vicious and defiant. He no longer needled her for his own entertainment. No longer sneered or threw barbs in half-coded language just because he could. But comfort was a different thing. And Sam Wilson, for all his watchfulness, still didn’t look at her like he trusted what he saw.

He didn’t think she was safe. He just didn’t think she was actively trying not to be.

She knew why. Humans—those who hadn’t been built, who had never been unmade and stitched back together—had a soft spot for breaking sounds. Her collapse had not been quiet. They shared a floor, only a hallway between them. He had heard.

She didn’t know how much. Only that it had been enough.

And now? She couldn’t tell whether the change in him came from reassessment… or pity.

The thought made her jaw tighten.

She wasn’t something to pity.

Bucky didn’t pity her. He didn’t see her as something weak. He understood—painfully, precisely. And that was different. That was something she could live with.

She shifted against the mattress, eyes fixed on the pale wash of sunlight creeping across the ceiling. The angle had changed again. The day was moving forward. She was not.

Despite her lack of sleep, she clung to this moment longer and longer each day—the silence before the day began. When the shared warmth stopped feeling like merely presence and became something intentional.

Yes, things had been different since that morning.

Not worse.

Not better, either.

Just… changed.

The sharp edge between her and Bucky had dulled to nothing at all. They didn’t clash as they once had—words like blades, glances like strikes—she didn’t think they’d ever return to that. But the quiet moments they’d found in Constanța were gone, too. The weightless stretch of tentative safety and discovery. Time. Of learning.

Now, everything felt weighted. Not pressurised, but something close. Like there was a question, a want, a need inside of her that threatened to become instinct.

She had let him hold her.

She had begged him to.

And now?

She didn’t know how to ask for it again.

She didn’t even have a name for it.

The way he’d held her—not just the mechanics of it, but the weight behind it. The stillness. The kind of stillness you could fall into and disappear. His heat had sunk into her bones, leeching pain that had been so ingrained she hadn’t known was there until it vanished. Flesh and metal had formed around her like armour, not confinement. His scent had curled beneath her nose as he’d cupped her face. His breath had brushed against her lips.

She remembered the feel of his skull beneath her palm. The coarse drag of his hair across her knuckles.

It had been sensory. Entirely tactile. No motive, no strategy, no objective. Just contact. And the startling realisation that she wanted it. That it had felt… good.

Safe.

She didn’t know if she should ask for it again.

So she stayed still. Curled under the weight of the covers, close enough to breathe in his scent, but not close enough to reach for more.

The ghost of that want plaguing every conversation.

*

The knock at the door was soft. A tap, really. But it splintered her thoughts like glass.

She tensed automatically and glanced at Bucky, but he didn’t stir. Not even a twitch of his eyelids. His breathing remained slow, heavy. He was still out cold.

She slipped out of bed with care, her feet soundless against the floor. A part of her still moved like she was clearing corners with a rifle. Silent, swift, ready.

At the doorway, she paused. Looked down.

Bare legs. Bucky’s shirt. Nothing else.

Her mind flicked—unbidden—back to the hotel room. What had Bucky said?

It’s okay. For inside.

She cracked the door.

Sam stood in the hall, a neatly folded stack of clothing in his arms. T-shirts. Sweatpants. Socks. A sports bra tucked between the fabric.

She stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

He raised a brow. Not leering—just assessing. The way men did when they hadn’t decided yet whether they respected you.

Her cheeks flushed. Not from shame, but from the implication. She wasn’t embarrassed to be seen like this. She was angry that it meant something. Angry that his gaze meant something. That she even noticed it.

She didn’t want Sam Wilson thinking she trusted him.

But she refused to flinch. Didn’t back away or hide behind the door.

She crossed her arms. “What?”

He held out the stack. “These are for you. And Barnes.”

Her brow twitched. Then, when he said nothing else, she took them. She moved slowly, taking care not to touch him at all. The fabric was warm from his hands. Not fresh from the dryer—but handled. Deliberate. Her fingers tightened slightly, reflexive.

It was a kindness.

That made her suspicious.

A trade? But he’d offered his clothes freely before. This didn’t feel like a transaction. It felt… like something else. An attempt.

She said nothing. For so long, he began to turn.

“Sam.”

He paused. Still. Waiting. His posture, always the soldier—disciplined and patient. He didn’t look back, didn’t prompt. She’d chosen to speak and it was hers to finish.

She hesitated, then, “I’m sorry I wanted to kill you.”

Silence.

Then—he exhaled, short. His mouth pressed tight, holding something in. A laugh slipped out anyway.

“I’m sorry I gave you cause.” A beat. “Do over?”

She tilted her head slightly. Not because she didn’t understand—just surprised that… it could be that simple.

He opened his mouth, likely to clarify—

“Yes,” she said quickly.

She did know what ‘do over’ meant. She spoke English.

Sam nodded once, then turned again.

And again, she stopped him.

“Do you think…” Her voice caught. This felt stupid, but it also felt important.

He looked back over his shoulder, waiting once again for her to figure out how to speak. His expression unreadable.

She held the clothes tighter. “Do you think I could help? With the surveillance.”

That landed between them like a live round. Her mouth felt dry.

“I’m—programmed for it,” she added quickly. Quiet. Not ashamed, not proud. Just factual. “And it might make sleeping easier. If I knew what was going on.”

It hurt to give him a human reason, but Sam was the most human person she’d ever met. He responded to reasoning he could empathise with more than facts. While her skills may not sway him, a needlessly emotional reason might tip the balance.

Still, he didn’t answer.

She felt the rejection before it happened. Of course not. He was a soft, but he wasn’t careless. Of course he wouldn’t hand over access to classified feeds to what he believed to be a ticking time bomb. What had she expected? That pity stretched into trust?

She looked away.

Then, he surprised her: “Sure.”

Her head lifted.

“Get dressed,” he said, turning toward the stairs. “I’ll show you the system over breakfast.”

She smiled. It was small at first—uncertain—but real. Relief shaped the curve of it, tempered by disbelief. “Maybe…” Her teeth caught her lower lip, eyes flicking to his, testing the waters. “Not a protein bar?”

A smirk tugged at Sam’s mouth, something knowing in his eyes. “What would you like?”

She hesitated. The question struck deeper than it should have… because she didn’t know. She hadn’t expected to be asked. She hadn’t even expected to make the request in the first place. The impulse to speak had come so suddenly—unexpected, impulsive, childlike. A desire. A want.

She wasn’t used to those and regulating the use of them was something she was still working out.

She knew she liked the colour black. That she preferred the smell of roses to freesias—at least in shampoo. She liked the feel of cotton, not wool. These were preferences she’d learned through trial and error, through necessity. But food—food had always been utilitarian. She ate what was given. What was there. What would keep her alive. Even now, it remained a means to an end.

Except once.

She thought of the birthday cake protein bar in the gas station. She’d picked it because the packaging had shimmered under the fluorescents, its pastel palette bright and strange. A small flare of want—pure and uncalculated—had struck her in that moment. It had lit up her brain like a firework.

But even that had been cloaked in irony. A cake that wasn’t really cake. A joke only she was in on.

Sam was still looking at her, waiting. She understood what he meant—but not how to answer.

Tentatively, almost warily, she asked, “What is breakfast food?”

He blinked.

Then something passed over his expression. A quiet shift. She couldn’t name it, but it settled in her gut with a weight she didn’t know how to carry. Like she’d revealed too much. Handed over something fragile without meaning to.

She felt exposed.

Small.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just gave a single, thoughtful nod.

“Leave it to me,” he said.

Then he turned, his footsteps retreating down the corridor with the same even rhythm she’d come to associate with him. Heavier than hers and Bucky’s, but no less measured or efficient.

Grace exhaled through puffed cheeks and muttered to herself as she stepped back into the bedroom, “Stupid.”

So much for dignity.

If she wanted Sam to stop looking at her like a feral dog someone had coaxed in off the street, that wasn’t the way to go about it.

And yet—despite the misstep—it had gone well. Objectively. She hadn’t threatened him. He hadn’t insulted her. They’d struck… not a truce, but maybe the start of an understanding. A shared purpose. She was going to contribute to the surveillance network. She was going to try real breakfast.

She was trying.

Trying to make this less painful.

Less awkward.

Less like something she was forced to do.

The rest—Bucky, the house, her aching exhaustion—it was still tangled. Still too much. Still too close. But Sam was light in a way she couldn’t fake. Easy in a way she didn’t trust. And maybe that made him good practice.

Besides—he already thought she was one step away from alien.

Which meant, for once, she didn’t have to be careful about what mistakes she made. No cover to maintain whilst analysing his behaviour.

Behind her, a quiet inhale. Then the slow, audible drag of breath as Bucky roused.

The bed shifted with his weight as he rolled onto his stomach, his arm stretching out toward the opposite side—reaching automatically for where she’d been. His brow creased when his hand met only cool sheets.

She watched silently from the end of the bed, pulse tightening, caught off guard by the simple intimacy of the gesture. The frown. The reach. The absence noticed.

His eyes opened slowly, heavy-lidded and slow to focus. This kind of sleep softened him as it receded. Made him look strangely young—unguarded in a way she rarely saw. There was something peaceful in it. Something that made her chest tighten.

“What happened?” he asked when his eyes finally located her, his voice still thick from sleep, warm and rough-edged. It curled around her like steam.

She blinked, startled by the flutter it caused. “Uh—Sam brought clothes,” she said, gesturing at the folded pile beside her. “We have an alliance now. And breakfast.”

He stared at her for a beat, still waking. Then—unexpectedly—his mouth pulled into a slow, unhurried smile. Real. Lazy. A smile that didn’t look like it belonged to the same man she’d seen bloodied in the dirt, or ghost-quiet in the dark corners of rented apartments. It lit his face. Undid something at the corners of it.

She wanted to see it again.

All of it.

Not the version of him he carried like armour, but this. Whatever this was.

“I’m helping him with the surveillance system,” she added, a little awkward now. Her hands picked at the pile. “My skills are in monitoring.”

Something flickered across his face. A sharpening. “Why? Did something happen?”

She shook her head, quick to reassure. “No, I just—thought I could be useful. I… sleep better when I know what’s coming,” she admitted quietly, the words falling out easier the second time, but feeling all the more impactful when said in truth and not just tactic.

He didn’t comment on it. Just gave a faint twitch of his lips. “And you’re going to play nice with Sam?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I apologised for wanting to kill him. What else do you want from me?”

That earned her a huff of laughter.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and yawned—shoulders rolling, muscles pulling beneath the thin t-shirt he’d slept in. The air shifted. The moment passed. And just like that, he was back. The version of him she knew. Grounded. Controlled. Still a little frayed at the edges.

She looked away, giving herself something to do, pretending the atmosphere hadn’t changed.

That she didn’t instantly miss it.

The clothes made a good excuse.

She started sorting through them—pulling each item from the pile and dividing them into two. His and hers. Practical pieces: jeans, sweatpants, t-shirts, leggings. A hoodie or two. It was more than she’d expected. More than they needed. Sam had made an effort.

A kindness within a kindness.

Bucky gathered his half, folded it neatly, and tucked it into the bedside drawer. He left out a clean set and placed it on the blanket, grabbing a towel.

But he didn’t move.

He stood still, towel in hand, eyes fixed on it like the thought had left him entirely. Like something had caught on him. Or caught up to him.

Grace didn’t ask.

She kept folding socks instead. Paired them. Tucked them away in the drawer on the right—her side. The one she always claimed. The one furthest from his metal arm.

Not that she minded it anymore. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, its cold edge reminded her of the truth. Who they were. What had been done to them.

And even now, even with everything she’d begun to recover, the smallest habits remained.

She was halfway through the socks when movement caught at the edge of her vision—black shifting to pale, flesh to metal.

Grace glanced over her shoulder, curious.

Then froze.

Bucky had taken off his shirt.

She had seen him shirtless once before—back at the farmhouse, when his body was still gaunt with fatigue, bruises darkening his ribs like ink stains. But now... now he was healing. Strength had returned to him, though his latest injury had ravaged him almost as much. The shape of it visible across his back and shoulders, muscle rising firm beneath skin. It was a good thing, she told herself. Health was a good thing.

So why couldn’t she look away once confirming that?

Her gaze lingered too long on the sloped line of his shoulder, the sweep of muscle down his flank, the subtle path of hair that disappeared into the waistband of his sweatpants.

Her stomach tightened—curious, almost queasy with heat. A flicker of something warm bloomed in her chest and spread lower, insistent and bewildering. She didn’t know what it was, not really. But it wasn’t fear. That, she would’ve recognised.

Then his thumbs caught on the waistband, and he pulled them down with no ceremony, stripping to his briefs.

Her breath caught sharply.

The smooth taper of his waist, the flex of his thighs, the long planes of him—these were not details she had meant to see. And yet she did. She saw all of them. Took them in like she might memorise a tactical blueprint, but without the focus or clarity. Her mind spun. Heat spiked at her collar, prickled beneath her skin. Something hot and breathless coiled deep in her belly.

No—it’s wrong.

This was wrong.

Her eyes snapped down to the socks in her lap. Her fingers clenched around the cotton like it might steady her.

“Grace?”

Her name landed gently—too gently. Not with suspicion or reprimand, but calm.

She swallowed, hard. “Hm?” The sound emerged hoarse, stifled.

Bucky didn’t comment on her reaction. Didn’t press. His voice remained low, unhurried. “It’s okay,” he said. “I trust you.”

The words hit like a strike to the chest.

Trust.

Not forgiveness. Not tolerance. Trust.

She looked up before she meant to, caught in the softness of his gaze, the patience in it. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t cover himself. He simply… waited. Let her have the space to think, to come to terms with something she had never considered before.

Permission.

Choice.

And with it, something deeper—something she hadn’t expected to want. The ability to look. To choose. To see him as he was, offered and unafraid. It wasn’t about the skin. It wasn’t even about him, not fully.

It was about what it stirred in her.

Her cheeks burned, hot with confusion and something close to shame. But she didn’t look away this time.

Because it felt… good. Strange, yes, and new. But good.

Not because of how he looked—but because of what it meant. What it signified. No threat. No force. Just him. Offering her the right to her own gaze. Letting her be human. Letting her want.

She nodded, almost too quietly to notice. “Thank you.”

Bucky didn’t linger. He stepped past her with easy confidence, bare feet silent on the floor. As he moved by, his hand brushed her shoulder. Not firm, not possessive. Just enough pressure to say I see you.

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

The bathroom door clicked closed. A second later, the sound of the shower roared to life, a hiss of white noise that filled the room behind her.

She exhaled.

Didn’t realise she’d been holding her breath.

She changed quickly, fingers fumbling the fabric. Her mind spun with questions she didn’t yet have the language for. Her skin felt too tight, too warm, not unpleasant but undeniably altered. As if something had shifted inside her and now everything moved slightly out of place.

And underneath it all, quieter than the rest, steady and undeniable:

He trusts me.

She’d earned it.

She wasn’t ready for what came next.

But for the first time, she thought—

Maybe she didn’t need to be.

*

Sam was already at the kitchen island when she entered, the scent of brewed coffee lingering in the warm air like something domestic, something safe. He didn’t look up. Just gestured loosely toward the empty chair opposite, his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him.

Low pressure. Intentional. As if the less importance he assigned to the moment, the better the odds of it not imploding.

“Right on time,” he said mildly.

She hesitated. The walk from the bedroom had been short and it hadn’t steadied her. Not after Bucky’s words—I trust you—which still echoed beneath her skin, coiled like heat beneath her ribs. She cleared her throat and eased into the seat, fingers braced lightly on the countertop.

Sam didn’t acknowledge her beyond a glance. His fingers continued flying across the keyboard, navigating windows and feeds with practiced ease. Surveillance footage flickered on his laptop screen, the images mirrored faintly in the stainless steel of the oven behind him—frames too rapid to follow for most, but not for her.

He caught the subtle shift in her focus. Closed the laptop halfway with a quiet click.

“We’ll get to that,” he said, voice still casual. “First thing’s first.”

He reached behind him and retrieved a plate then slid it across the marble toward her. She caught it before it stopped, the ceramic warm under her palms. She blinked at the food. Familiar, and not.

Something that resembled bread, but denser. Round. Golden. Soft but sturdy, like it was meant to be pulled apart. Beside it, bacon, curled and crisped at the edges. Eggs sat like punctuation marks on the plate, flecked with dark pepper and coarse salt. A meal assembled with care. The proportions neat. Balanced.

She stared at it longer than she meant to.

“What is this?” she asked, cautious.

Sam smiled—an unguarded expression, quick and oddly endearing. “That,” he said, tapping the side of her plate with a finger, “is a biscuit. My Tee-Tee’s recipe.”

She frowned. “Tee-Tee?”

“My aunt,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “Her biscuits could fix just about anything. Broken hearts. Skinned knees. Ugly mornings. You name it.”

Grace raised a brow.

He shrugged, half a smirk on his lips. “Worth a shot, right?”

She looked back down at the plate, throat tightening faintly. The food smelled good. Fresh. There was even heat still rising from the biscuit. The gesture was unmistakable. A peace offering.

Kindness, again.

She didn’t know what to do with it. Couldn’t help but question the origin. Was it because he pitied her now? Because he’d heard the sobbing through the walls? Because she’d finally folded under the weight of everything and revealed something raw and recognisable?

It didn’t matter.

Even if it wasn’t earned, even if it was soaked in pity—it was still kindness. And she hadn’t had much of that in her life.

Grace picked up the fork with measured care, cutting into the biscuit as though it might react. It broke apart with a satisfying give—crumbly and tender, the interior still steaming. She paused, watching the way the flakes fell, how the edges gave way to soft, warm centres. It looked nothing like the stale, rationed bread she’d known. Nothing like food meant purely for function.

She brought a piece to her mouth. The texture met her tongue first—buttery, yielding—and then the taste followed. Rich. Warm. She stopped chewing halfway through the bite, lips pressing together as she sat with it.

Sam noticed. Of course he did.

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest with deliberate nonchalance. “Go on,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “I dare you to say you don’t like it.”

She forced herself to swallow slowly, careful to keep her expression unreadable. But something must have escaped—some flicker of surprise or reluctant pleasure—because Sam’s face shifted. Amusement tempered by something gentler.

She glanced away, fixing her gaze on the plate. “It’s… acceptable,” she murmured.

The admission was quiet. Not defiant, but not effusive either. She wasn’t withholding to be difficult—she was trying to thread a very fine needle. To show appreciation without surrender. Gratitude without fragility. She wouldn’t be softened by flour and butter. Wouldn’t allow herself to be.

But perhaps choosing a slightly less cool response wouldn’t have meant the end of the world.

Sam, to his credit, seemed to understand. His grin was brief but genuine, his nod approving without being patronising. “You’re welcome.”

He turned away to refill his coffee, and the moment of scrutiny passed.

Grace used the opportunity to lift a larger bite to her mouth, tucking it in quickly. She wasn’t used to food being worth savouring. But this… this was something else. She didn’t know what to call it.

Only that she wanted more. And more often.

The stairs creaked softly under Bucky’s weight a few minutes later, but his steps were heavier than usual. Deliberate. Letting them know he was coming.

Grace’s eyes didn’t lift right away, though she heard the shift in air as he reached the kitchen threshold. Damp strands of his hair clung to his neck, darkened and curling where water hadn’t finished drying. The sunlight filtering through the windows caught along his shoulders, outlining the shape of him in a soft, golden burn.

Her stomach flipped. Not sharply—just enough to make her grip her fork a little tighter.

She stared at her plate. Half-empty. Not fast enough to pass for distraction, not slow enough to mask the warmth pooling low in her abdomen, lingering from the image of him standing bare-chested in the bedroom. From his voice, from his words.

I trust you.

Bucky moved into the space with caution, his gaze sliding between her and Sam like he was testing the air. Measuring the charge between them. Bracing, just in case.

Grace finally lifted her eyes. “Breakfast,” she offered, gesturing with her fork to the remaining food. She nudged the plate closer to him. “Sam challenges you to insult his cooking.”

A flicker of humour twitched at the corners of Sam’s mouth. He didn’t speak.

Bucky eyed the food with the same suspicion he gave most things in his life. “A world of cuisine,” he said eventually, tone flat, “and that’s your idea of breakfast?”

Sam exhaled sharply, a full-body roll of his eyes. “I made your girl biscuits, Barnes. Real ones. Be grateful she’s still yours.”

Something shifted in the space. Bucky’s brow lowered—not in anger, not quite—but something settled behind his eyes. Grace felt it without needing to look. A current of warning that passed from him to Sam like a silent exchange. Unspoken, but understood.

Sam just smirked, clearly pleased with himself, like a dog getting away with chewing the good shoes.

Bucky reached for the plate. He picked up one of the remaining biscuits, studying it like it might contain shrapnel, then took a bite. His jaw worked slowly, deliberately, offering no insight.

Then, finally: a shrug. “It’s alright.”

Sam let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head as he reached for his coffee. “High praise, coming from a man who’s lived on vending machines and military rations.”

“I’m eating it,” Bucky said, the words clipped and simple—but the tone? That wasn’t dismissal.

It was possession. Challenge.

His eyes met Sam’s across the counter, steady and unyielding.

Grace wasn’t sure if the tension that followed was hostile or familiar. But she knew one thing for certain: Sam had to back down first.

Grace cleared her throat. It wasn’t subtle.

Both men looked away, almost in sync. Bucky dropped his gaze, jaw ticking slightly as he pulled the plate toward him with the same quiet gravity he applied to most things. He didn’t speak. Just picked up the fork and set to work on what she hadn’t finished.

Sam turned back to his laptop without comment, fingers resuming their quick, economical rhythm. The silence that followed was not comfortable, but it was functional—filled with chewing, metal clinks, and the occasional shuffle of chair legs against tile. The only ambient sound was the familiar drip of the coffee machine and birdsong filtering through the trees outside.

Then Bucky broke it.

“Has Steve made contact yet?”

His tone was neutral, but Grace heard the shift. The edge. The hope wound tightly beneath it.

Sam stilled. His expression didn’t change, but something about the way his shoulders moved—just slightly—signalled the answer before he spoke. He turned the laptop toward them and pressed a key.

“Things got a little messy in Sokovia,” he said, voice low. “Real messy.”

The screen flickered. Grainy news footage began to roll: choppy aerial shots of grey rubble, shattered steel beams twisted like wire, plumes of ash and smoke clouding the streets. Sirens wailed in the background, barely audible under the narration.

“—devastation continues in Sokovia, as international leaders question the unchecked authority of the Avengers. With rising death tolls and ongoing rescue efforts, many are asking: how much longer can enhanced individuals act without oversight—”

Grace leaned closer. Her eyes narrowed. The images hit harder than she expected.

People screaming. Running. Blood smeared across foreheads. Firemen trying to dig children from debris with their bare hands. The scorched hull of a car half-buried in a collapsed building. Men and women carrying the injured. Dust-coated faces—grief-stricken, shell-shocked, furious.

Her chest tightened.

This was her world… and this was the first time she’d seen it and felt nauseous.

She stopped picking at the plate.

“What happened?” Bucky asked, his voice sharper now. His arms had folded, but the tension in them was plain. He was leaning forward, breathing slower, eyes fixed to the screen.

Sam drew a long breath and exhaled through his nose. “Ultron happened,” he said. Then went on to explain when he received only curious glances. “AI project. Tony and Bruce thought they could build a peacekeeping program to keep the planet safe from extraterrestrial threat.”

He paused. Grace could tell he was trying to decide how much to say. Eventually, he pressed on.

“Sure as always, the biggest threat to humanity is itself,” he sighed. “So it went rogue. Decided the best way to protect humanity was to wipe it out. Used Sokovia as the launch point. Steve and the others stopped him—barely. But the cost was high.”

“Steve saved lives,” he added, carefully. “Saved the whole damn planet, actually. But not everyone sees it that way.”

He glanced at her, reading something in her silence she wasn’t sure was there anymore.

She wasn’t indifferent to this. Nor did she think it brought Steve down to her level in some way.

As if on cue, the feed cut to a crowd of Sokovian civilians. Their voices were blurred in translation, but the rage was unmistakable. Faces contorted in fury, fingers jabbing toward cameras, tears on cheeks. A woman shouted something directly into the lens—no subtitles were needed.

They did this.

They destroyed our home.

They didn’t save our family.

Grace swallowed. There was no mistaking the pain on their faces. No mistaking the weight of what had been lost.

So this was what even heroes left behind. Rubble. Rage. Wreckage.

Her mind turned sharply inward. Steve Rogers—Captain America, the name she had heard spoken like myth—hadn’t been enough. And if he wasn’t enough to stop it cleanly, to save everyone…

What did that mean for her?

Before she could voice it, the feed changed again. Another figure now filled the screen—tall, striking, otherworldly. Skin the shade of blood, eyes like polished glass, a golden stone embedded prominently in his forehead. He looked inhumanly calm. Composed. To the point of unnerving.

Even for her.

She blinked. “Is that him?”

Sam’s head tilted toward the laptop. “No. That’s Vision,” he said. “But… it could’ve been. Ultron designed that body for himself. Built it out of vibranium. That stone in his head? No one knows exactly what it is. Some ancient—cosmic—I don’t know.” He scratched his jaw, clearly searching for a descriptor that made sense. “He’s new. Born in the middle of the fight. Not human. Not a machine. Something else.”

Grace exchanged a look with Bucky. Neither of them spoke—but it was the kind of look that spoke volumes. Both of them had seen what science was capable of. What power did in the wrong hands. What happened when people believed they were building salvation and ended up unleashing monsters.

Vision’s still image remained frozen on the screen, the soft glow of that stone pulsing like a heartbeat.

It looked powerful. Vision looked powerful. The idea that Ultron—whatever it was, hellbent on eradicating humanity—could have inhabited such a vessel… now that was a fight that needed enhanced individuals.

It was true that strength invited challenge. And with the media outing and advertising the strength of the Avengers—of the existence of super soldiers, high-tech suits, weapons, trained individuals—everyone wanted their own slice of the pie. Their own shields.

Clearly, HYDRA had never been content with an organic super soldier and felt the need to enhance them further—

Sam continued scrolling, fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the keys. “Whole world’s on edge,” he muttered, eyes fixed to the screen. “Governments, military, civilians… They want oversight. Accountability—”

Grace’s hand flattened against the marble as the thought dawned—

“Where did the vibranium come from?”

Her voice was sharp, precise. Bucky turned to glance at her, surprised by her sudden urgency.

Sam blinked. “Uh… I’m not sure. I’ve just been tracking the data dumps—media uploads, encrypted leaks, that sort of thing.”

Of course. It wasn’t his mission.

Bucky’s jaw tightened as his mind lagged a half-second behind hers. He looked between them, then back to the screen. There was a note in his voice now—firm, alert. “Can you find out?”

Sam hesitated, then nodded once and keyed in a few commands. A file opened. An image filled the screen.

A man’s face. Smirking. Scarred.

A brand burned into his neck like a mark of ownership.

“Here we go,” Sam said, tapping the image. “Ulysses Klaue. Arms dealer. Black market lunatic. Only thief alive who’s been stupid enough to steal from Wakanda.”

The sight of the brand hit her like a bullet to the chest.

Not a scrape or a bruise—but a rupture. A split straight down the centre of her being. Cold panic surged like frostbite through her limbs, locking her joints, stiffening her lungs. Her fingers curled into fists so tight her nails sliced into her palms, grounding her only in pain. But even that wasn’t enough to hold her here.

The fear had a name now.

Recognition detonated behind her eyes, hot and violent, a wildfire consuming every fragile barrier she’d built. Flashes of memory rushed in with brutal clarity—unwelcome, unavoidable.

Not fragments this time. Not glimpses.

Full colour. Full sound.

She had tended that scar. Known the smell of it—burned flesh and cheap antiseptic, blood and sweat and leather gloves. Known his voice—thin and clipped, slipping between her vertebrae like piano wire. Known the shape of his breath against her skin.

“Grace?”

The name cut through from somewhere far away, distorted by the roaring in her ears.

Her hand moved before she knew it—snapping across the counter, latching onto Bucky’s wrist with enough pressure to dent the metal. The chair behind her scraped violently against the floor as he stood, catching her shoulders, trying to turn her toward him.

But she couldn’t look away.

The face on the screen held her in place like a chain around her throat. Her pulse thundered. She was shaking—small tremors at first, then full-body, teeth-clattering tremors that stole the air from her chest.

Pain bloomed behind her eyes like an explosion—white-hot and sharp, an ice-pick jammed into the fault line of her skull.

And then—

Everything.

All of it. All at once.

The chair.

The straps.

The hands.

The brand.

The voice.

The tasks.

Her hands—her hands—carrying out orders she hadn’t understood but had obeyed all the same.

“Mama!”

She was falling.

Falling inside herself.

Metal fingers pressed against her chin—Bucky, forcing her to look. His face swam into view, taut with concern, framed in noise and light. He was speaking. She could see the shape of her name on his lips, the question in his eyes.

But she couldn’t answer.

She couldn’t breathe.

He shook her. Not rough—urgent. But it didn’t break through. The black edges were creeping in, flooding the corners of her vision like ink in water.

She choked on a sob, dry and sharp as glass.

Then his head snapped sideways—yelling. Loud. Too loud.

Her grip tightened on his wrist, but it wasn’t conscious. It was survival. Instinct. Threat-response.

Fight. Flee. Kill.

She moved before she thought. Her fist came up, cracked off his shoulder. Weak. Sloppy. The world buckled around her. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The chair behind her pinned her in place. Metal braced against her spine. Arms—arms were closing in. A hand grabbed at her jaw.

A flash—steel again. Glinting.

Not a weapon. A syringe.

No. No.

“Let me go!” she howled, ragged and raw. The sound scraped up from the deepest part of her, some feral thing without language. Her body thrashed, wild and uncoordinated, strength surging in pulses she couldn’t control. Her heel caught a chair leg and splintered it sideways. Plates shattered somewhere. A glass hit the floor. She didn’t see it break.

“Grace—Grace, it’s for your own good!” Bucky’s voice—close. Too close.

She turned on him, breath heaving, eyes wide and black with fear.

“Don’t touch me!”

But he didn’t move back.

He stayed. Held tighter. Didn’t let her go.

And that broke something in her.

She screamed—rage, despair, terror—her fists raining blows that didn’t land right, didn’t have aim. Her body was shaking. She was sobbing now, weeping in gasps, mouth open wide like it couldn’t hold all the noise.

“Sam!” Bucky barked, voice cracking on the name. “Now!”

She twisted hard, and for a moment, she almost got free. But then two arms locked around her from behind, thick and solid. Bucky. He dragged her backward. Her hip struck the counter. Her body twisted in his grip. She screamed again, nails scrabbling at his forearm.

“No—no, please!”

Her head was yanked sideways. Her shoulder forced down. The muscles in her throat exposed. Bared. Like an animal.

“Please don’t—Bucky, please don’t do this—”

The needle went in.

Fire bloomed under her skin.

Then cold.

It spread outward like frost. Into her limbs. Her spine. Her mouth.

Her next scream didn’t come. Her fingers loosened. Knees gave.

Bucky caught her before she hit the floor.

And the world folded in. Silent. Sealed. Like water closing over a stone.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Bucky ran his flesh fingers over the impression of Grace’s now permanently marked into his metal wrist. Subtle. Small. But there. The light warped as it hit them.

Sam was still pacing. Not fast. Not erratic. But enough to grind against every raw edge Bucky had left. It sounded louder than it should have. Every step a hollow echo in the quiet of the house. No words passed between them. There hadn’t been any since they sealed the door shut.

“She’s not gonna be happy when she wakes up,” Sam muttered eventually, like he had to say something or risk being crushed beneath the silence.

Bucky didn’t answer at first. He was staring at the panic room’s matte surface—blank, silent, solid. Devoid of anything warm or soft to comfort him.

“No,” he said finally. “But unless you wanted another round, we didn’t have a choice.”

The logic sounded thin even to him. Hollow in his mouth.

Putting her in that room had been a line. A line they weren’t supposed to cross unless there was no other option. It had been designated as the place to hold either of them—him, especially—if they lost control. Broke conditioning, or fell back into it. Not because anyone had proof that such a thing could ever happen. But because no one knew it couldn’t.

They hadn’t built the rules around facts. They’d built them around fear.

She’d seen something in him—Klaue. His face lit up something ancient and rotten in the back of her mind. And it had all come flooding in. The kind of unmoored terror that didn’t belong to this world.

Grace had lost control.

The problem wasn’t her panic. It was how she responded to fear that could have turned dangerous. No one knew how rogue Asset minds responded to extreme stress. What Asset collapse looked like in the beginning stages. The risk of them relapsing into programming was… significant enough that there had been contingencies in place.

For both of them.

Sam had explained it to Bucky that first night. His conditions for allowing both of them to roam free within the safehouse. They weren’t allowed to go outside. They weren’t allowed to be armed. And they would be sedated and restrained if they showed signs of risk.

He hadn’t told Grace. She hadn’t been ready to hear it—how little freedom they actually had and how little trust was owed to them because of what they were. And he hated that this was how she found out.

It would feel like betrayal until he could try and reason with her. Even then, the moment he’d broken her trust—it was just too horrendously perfect. Like he’d planned it. He’d told her he trusted her, given her something truer than speech. Permission. Safety. His back turned, his body bare. I trust you, he’d said—then held her down as a stranger put her to out.

He was the only person she trusted.

And he’d proven that was a mistake.

He really was a fucking monster.

A sick weight pressed into his chest, dense and spreading sour with memory. He didn’t know what would hurt more—that she’d wake up terrified, thinking she was back in the chair—or that she’d wake up and know she wasn’t.

That she’d understand exactly where she was, and exactly who had done it.

“How long?” Sam asked.

“Not long.” Bucky rubbed at the faint dent along the metal of his wrist. “Our metabolisms work overtime. And that includes sedatives.”

Sam nodded. The silence held, deeper this time. Weighted.

“I used to work with soldiers,” he said at last. “Guys coming back from combat. Couldn’t sleep without hearing gunfire. Couldn’t touch their wives without seeing blood. Most of them didn’t know who they were without orders or a weapon.”

“I’ve seen panic attacks. Dissociation. Total blackout.” Sam glanced toward the sealed door. “You did the right thing.”

Bucky looked up. His jaw locked, but he didn’t argue.

Sam met his eyes, steady. “So, provided she wakes up Grace—and not something else—want to hear my plan?”

Bucky didn’t answer, but he didn’t shut him down either.

Sam shifted his weight. “Permission to be honest without getting thrown out a window?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. A nod. Small. He didn’t have a better idea.

“She’s not gonna want to see you,” Sam said. “Whatever trust you had—it’s gone. Doesn’t matter if it was justified. Doesn’t matter if it was necessary. You restrained her and she wakes up in a box. That’s all she knows.”

Bucky didn’t argue. That was the part that wouldn’t leave him alone either.

“Now, she’ll come out of that room one of two ways. Fragile or fortified. Either way, we have to get her to listen. And if she doesn’t trust you, it falls to me.”

And wasn’t that just the best circumstance? Grace had barely moved Sam out of the threat category that morning—relying on him to built rapport wasn’t going to be easy. He didn’t even know if it were possible.

Bucky ran a hand over the back of his neck. “She listens to logic. Not emotion. If you lead with sympathy, she’ll shut down. Or think you’re manipulating her.”

And wasn’t that exactly what they were doing?

Whether they deserved to be trusted remained to be seen.

“Okay. What else?”

A pause. He thought of the early days. The woods. The farm. Long nights full of silence and rage and nothing in between.

“She gets angry before she gets clear,” Bucky said finally. “It’s how she processes. She spirals, lashes out, then... thinks. When there’s nothing else to do and she’s too tired to be stubborn.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “How long does that take?”

“Depends,” Bucky muttered. “Sometimes days.”

Sam shook his head. “We don’t have days. There’s only one way into that room, and if we try delivering dinner when she’s still throwing punches, we’ll have to start from square one all over again.”

Bucky nodded faintly, eyes fixed somewhere on the concrete floor. “We need her to burn hot. Get it out.”

“And you’re giving me permission to light that match?”

“No.” Bucky pushed to his feet. “I’ll do it myself.”

Sam frowned. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

No. No, he wasn’t. Grace was cold at the best of times and downright vicious when she wanted to be. And in order to burn off the sheer amount of rage she’d be feeling? He was going to have to goad her. Poke her. Wind her tight and then give her nothing.

He couldn’t bite back. He couldn’t defend himself. He just had to take it.

And Grace was an expert at getting under his skin.

There was a rustle of movement behind the door. Her breathing, shallow and alert. Awake.

He squared his shoulders.

“Not at all. Wish me luck.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

She came to in silence. No voices. No lights. Just the cold press of a metal cot beneath her palms and the faint, pulsing sting in her neck.

Grace blinked once. Then again. The ceiling above her was matte black, smooth, unfamiliar. Not a ceiling. A panel. One of many. Her eyes tracked along them, counting. A grid. A box.

Not a room.

A cell.

Her breath quickened. Not all at once—she wasn’t hyperventilating—but something inside her began to pace. Like an animal, just below the surface, testing the perimeter. It had been sedated too, but now it stirred.

She sat up slowly. Her joints ached, her throat raw. Her skin was clammy, damp with the kind of sweat that clings after panic—cold and sticky. Her fingers reached reflexively for her neck.

No mark. Already healed.

But she remembered it. The needle. The restraint. His voice in her ear.

It’s for your own good.

Her stomach turned.

There was no clock. No window. Just smooth walls, a vent in the ceiling, and a steel-plated door with no visible handle. If there was a camera, it was hidden.

She stood.

Unsteady at first. Not from the sedative, but from the weight of memory. Her legs moved beneath her, but she didn’t feel them. She knew what this room was. She didn’t need to be told.

Containment.

They thought she’d broken.

Maybe she had.

And if she hadn’t—she was about to.

She rubbed her arms as though she could scrub off the afterimage. Klaue’s face still lingered behind her eyes. His voice. That scar. She’d seen it before. Touched it. Tended to it. A thousand fragments now formed something whole—and it was too much.

He was real. And alive. And she had done things for him.

Things she remembered now. All with sickening clarity. Time-stamped and neatly organised in a rolodex of horror.

Bile rose in her throat, her fists clenching—

Then came a knock.

Three sharp raps on the door. Measured. Not urgent. Not aggressive. Too hesitant to be a demand, but resistance was expected and wouldn’t be tolerated.

She didn’t answer.

A pause. Then—

“Grace.”

Bucky. His voice muffled through the layers of steel.

She stepped back before she even realised it. Two slow paces, almost tripping over the low cot behind her. Her shoulder hit the wall.

He waited.

“I need you to let me in,” he said.

Not an apology. It wasn’t soft.

For a moment—a second—she didn’t instinctively reach for the rage inside of her. That bottomless well that threatened to drown her more often than not. It was there, ready. Waiting. But the sinking feeling in her chest wasn’t anger.

That—that would be what finally broke her. Irrevocably. Because it hurt so much more than any physical pain that had been inflicted on her.

Her voice, when it came, surprised her with its calm. “I already did.”

A pause. Then the low rasp of regret: “Please.”

And she hated how badly she wanted to believe it. That he was sorry. That he hadn’t meant it. That he hadn’t held her down and drugged her after promising he trusted her.

Maybe he’d believed it at the time.

But promises didn’t matter when someone built like her lost control.

And now that she remembered what she was, she knew that she could never hold anyone’s trust.

It was easier to reach for that rage now. That venom. Because she hated him. Hated what he’d done to her. What he’d convinced her was possible. The Wraith wasn’t weak. The Wraith didn’t hurt. The Wraith didn’t bend, bow or break.

Her jaw set.

She stepped toward the door. Slow. Controlled.

And growled, “You… are a liar.”

Then silence.

Not even breath from the other side.

She stood there long enough for doubt to curdle, for unbridled rage to flood its place.

“You told me you trusted me.” Her voice cracked. “You said that.”

Still nothing.

Her fingers curled against the cold metal, nails pressing into her palms. “So what was that? Insurance? You trust me right up until I scare you?”

The stillness stoked her.

“Do you have any idea what I am?” she barked, slamming the heel of her hand into the door. “Can you even imagine what I did for him, what he did to me, how I obeyed him like some fucking—” She stopped short. Her throat buckled.

She forced herself to laugh. A sharp, bitter sound. “And then you. You were supposed to—” Her voice cracked. “And you held me down. You drugged me!”

A pause. Then, through the seam of the frame, came his voice. Low. Measured. “Grace.”

“Don’t say that name.”

She couldn’t bring herself to say my name. Everything was broken, everything was wrong. All she knew was how hot her skin felt, how nausea rolled in her throat and made her head swim.

“I didn’t lie.”

“Fuck you!”

She struck the door hard, her palm rebounding with a dull ache, the impression of her hand pushed into it. “You don’t get to come here and play the wounded party. You’re not the one who woke up alone. You’re not the one who remembered what she was.”

“Grace—”

The name was like ice on the fire, threatening to throw her further into the weakness she refused to fall into.

And she was losing.

“You said you trusted me,” she snarled, voice pitching. “You said that. You showed me—you touched me like I was safe. Like you were safe. And then you put me down like a dog.”

A quiet beat.

“I trusted you.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You said I could. You said I wasn’t broken.”

He didn’t answer.

She struck the door again. Harder. This time with her fist. The metal rang. “Say something! Coward!”

Still nothing.

“What—what, now you don’t want to argue?” she bit, pacing backwards. “What, that’s it? You’ll just stand there and wait for me to self-destruct? That’s your plan?”

Silence.

She backed further, her pulse roaring in her ears. “You didn’t sedate me because I was a threat. You sedated me because you were scared.”

A breath from the other side. Audible this time.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” she hissed. “You saw me for what I really am. The mission. The fucking retrieval unit. The Asset. Soldat. Ya gotov otvechat.”

She went low with it. Right for the words that could cut and maim.

Still, he didn’t respond.

Her voice turned sharp with venom. “You think I don’t remember why I came to Romania?” she spat. “It was you. You were the target. I was going to bring you back in. Dead, if necessary. That was the mission. And I chose to do it. I wanted to. That’s who I was. That’s who I am.”

Another beat. She could hear her own breathing now. Ragged. Wet.

This wasn’t control. This was surrender. And she was free-falling.

“I never even fought them,” she said lowly. “They didn’t take me. They didn’t have to. I walked straight into it.”

Nothing.

She wiped her face furiously, gasping for breath. “Do you get that, Bucky? You were forced to become what you were. I volunteered.”

Still no answer.

She let out a scream and kicked the metal. Hands fisting her hair.

“I don’t want this,” she said finally. Quiet now. Small. “I don’t want to be this. I don’t want to feel all of it.”

The floor felt too far beneath her. She folded, arms braced around her knees, voice shaking.

“I wanted to kill you. And I could’ve. I should have left you on that fucking highway.”

A silence stretched impossibly thin. Then:

“Okay,” he said.

That was all.

She let out a quiet, involuntary sob.

She hated him. She hated how calmly he stood on the other side of that door, how little he gave her to fight against. She hated that he hadn't denied it. Hadn't rushed to explain. Hadn’t begged forgiveness or offered peace.

She hated that she wanted him to.

And worse—far worse—she hated how badly she wanted him to still be there.

She pressed her forehead to the door.

He didn’t move.

He was still there.

That was almost worse than if he hadn’t been.

*

At some point, Bucky left.

He hadn’t said another word. Neither had she. There’d been no resolution. No apology. Just silence stretched thin over the splinters left behind.

Grace didn’t remember falling asleep, but the room had shifted when she woke. The cold edge of clarity had dulled, smothered beneath the heaviness that followed rage. Her limbs were leaden. Her throat felt scraped raw, her head hollow.

There was no energy left to cry.

Her anger had scorched every nerve. It had risen too fast, too violently, and burned itself clean through. What remained wasn’t calm. It was wreckage. Charred and empty. She could hardly lift her head, let alone reach for anything solid.

She had never known fury like that. Not even under HYDRA’s control. Not when she’d been twisted into something sharp, something deadly. That kind of rage had been directed. This had been personal. And she had no idea what to do with it.

Except she did.

Once, long before the Soldat. Before conditioning. Before code words and pain compliance. There’d been another moment like this. A memory untouched by the machines, but weathered by time. She saw it sometimes—fragments, sensations—but never let it settle. Never let it breathe.

It was too old. And too painful. She’d buried it so deeply that it no longer bled. But now, in the quiet aftermath, it surfaced.

Her mother’s hands. A coat too big. The taste of smoke. A scream she hadn’t understood. Then arms—foreign, male, unfamiliar—lifting her from the ground. Carrying her away. Not gently.

She’d cried then. Fought. Begged.

Ulysses had told her it was for her own good. That her mother hadn’t survived. That he would look after her now. That he loved her.

And Grace—small, cold, alone—had believed him.

Because the alternative was unthinkable. Because to question him meant questioning her survival. Because the pain had been too sharp, too large, and she was too small to carry it.

She’d learned to accept it. To trust him. To find safety in the obedience he demanded. It was easier than grieving. Easier than hating him.

But now?

Now the grief returned. And it sat heavy, deep in her chest—just beneath her ribs—where even the soldat couldn’t reach it.

It felt the same as now. This betrayal. This understanding. This ache that no one else could see.

She curled onto her side on the narrow cot, facing the wall.

Not because she was tired.

But because she didn’t want to remember what it meant to feel this kind of alone again.

*

A shuffle from the other side of the door. Too loud, too graceless to be Bucky.

Sam.

He was heavy-footed—never learned to soften his steps, always moving like he had somewhere better to be. She could hear him from halfway across the house, the floorboards creaking like they resented the intrusion.

“You still alive in there?”

Grace didn’t respond. Just turned her head slightly, cheek brushing cold steel, as though she might see through it. She imagined him—back leaned against the opposite side of the door, knees drawn up, arms slung loosely across them. Waiting, like he had time.

She said nothing.

“Look, I know we haven’t exactly been on the same side of things. You probably think I’m just waiting for you to screw up.” A pause. “I’m not.”

He waited. Still nothing.

“I just wanna talk. Will you let me do that?”

She sat up and tipped her head back against the wall, eyes on the vent in the ceiling. A small square of silence.

“You know,” he said, voice lower now, “I wasn’t always running around with Steve Rogers. That guy’s a lot. Not just the shield, either—he’s exhausting to be around. Hope he never hears me say that.”

It was meant to be a joke, but his tone didn’t hold the weight of one.

“When I got out the army, I trained in trauma work. Didn’t go get a PhD or hang my name on a wall, but I learned how to talk to people. How to listen. I used to run group sessions at community centres. All over Brooklyn. Guys like us. Who didn’t know how to come home.”

Grace blinked, slow and deliberate. “I’m nothing like you.”

There was no heat in it. No sharpness. Just the echo of certainty.

“You say that,” Sam replied, quiet now. “But we’ve got more in common than you’d like to admit.”

She exhaled, slow. Looked up at the ceiling.

“It’s probably why we don’t like each other much,” he added. “We think the same way. We don’t hand out trust. And we sure as hell don’t give it to people who tell us things we don’t want to hear.”

Another pause.

“And right now? I’m gonna say some things you don’t want to hear.”

Brave when there was a wall of steel between them.

“I turned up at that house, told you what was happening,” Sam said. “Didn’t think to explain why I was really there. Didn’t try to understand you. Just figured you were in the way. A threat to the mission. A problem I didn’t have time to fix.”

Grace picked at the edge of her thumbnail until it peeled. “You were there because Steve asked you to be.”

“In part,” he allowed. “But I’m no one’s errand boy.”

His voice carried no ego, just a kind of tired clarity—like he’d repeated the line to himself more than once.

“Whatever’s between Steve and Barnes, that’s their business. I took the job because I knew what the Winter Soldier was capable of. I’d seen what happened when he got loose. And I knew exactly what would happen if someone managed to turn him back on.”

Grace didn’t argue. She didn’t have the energy, and more than that—she didn’t disagree. Not with that part. Sam, Steve, the Avengers—they were the good guys. Those blessed with power who thought to use it to protect others, rather than seek more. Even if sentiment played no part, they couldn’t leave a rogue Asset roaming the streets.

And they wouldn’t make exceptions for her.

Why would they?

So it all seemed rather pointless—Sam talking to her now. Telling her this.

“People like me,” Sam continued, “we don’t run on revenge. Not power, either. We run on mitigation. On getting the least number of people killed as possible.”

Grace’s hands went still in her lap. She knew that kind of logic. It was the cold calculus of command. The same math HYDRA had used to weigh losses was the same as any general. Only Sam used it to preserve life—not to ration it.

“I don’t know if you care what I think,” he said, “but if you want the truth, I don’t think either of you should be out in public. Not until Stark gets a look at your heads. Not until someone figures out if it can be shut off. Or reversed.”

She said nothing.

“It’s not about punishment. It’s not because I don’t like you,” he added. “It’s containment. It’s precaution. Same reason I agreed to let him bring you in.”

That part stung more than it should have, but she swallowed it. A logical move. Smart, strategic. Keep the threats close. Study them. Build a plan.

“When I took this job, I knew what it meant. I’d be outmanned, outgunned. So I played it smart.” His tone flattened, matter-of-fact. “This house? It can lock down in four seconds. I’ve got syringes in drawers. A tranquiliser gun in the closet. Fingerprint locked. You get out of control, I put you down.”

A pause. Not cruel. Just honest.

“It wasn’t designed for you,” he said. “But I won’t hesitate to use it again.”

Grace nodded once. Not a gesture of agreement, just acknowledgment.

The silence that followed stretched thin. Then thinner.

“I’d like to say you did the wrong thing,” she murmured. “But you didn’t. What I remembered... I am as dangerous as you think I am.”

She drew her knees up to her chest, resting her forehead against them.

A mechanical shift clicked through the walls. The sound of the lock disengaging.

She jumped, scrambling upright before she could stop herself. Her back hit the far wall.

The door eased open.

Sam stood in the threshold. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.

“You gonna start a fight if I let you out of here?”

Grace blinked. Confused. “I—I think I should stay.”

“It’s your call,” he said simply. “But I’m not shutting that door unless you ask me to.”

Grace didn’t speak.

The open doorway loomed like a dare. Cold air filtered in through the gap, carrying the distant smell of coffee and old wood. The sound of the house beyond. Normal things. Too normal. She stayed where she was, bare feet curled against steel, her spine rigid against the wall.

Sam didn’t move. He didn’t threaten, didn’t coax. Just waited, eyes calm, posture neutral.

After a long stretch, she took a breath. Then another. And then, slowly, she stepped forward. Not to the door—but toward the centre of the room. A quiet signal.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. He just stepped back.

The steel door remained open.

Grace stood there, one hand clenched by her side, the other loose. Her shadow pooled across the threshold but did not cross it.

“I’ll come out,” she said, voice thin but steady. “But not because you let me.”

Sam gave the smallest nod. “Fair enough.”

Then he left.

The lock stayed disengaged. The door ajar. The house silent once more.

She didn’t follow him. Not yet.

But she would.

Eventually.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTY

Bucky didn’t sleep.

He lay on top of the covers, one leg bent at the knee, eyes fixed on the ceiling—flat and formless, swallowed in dark. The hum of the air vent was constant, low, too even to be company. He hadn’t moved. Not since Sam left. Not since the lock clicked open and the silence settled like fallout. Not since she stopped answering.

The room—her room—held its breath. The door stayed cracked from earlier, left ajar not by accident, but like a white flag neither of them had the strength to raise. A truce unsigned.

She hadn’t returned. Not after the sedation. Not after the storm of what she remembered. Not after she’d said the things designed to scar—and the ones that slipped out with too much truth.

But he hadn’t left, either.

Because leaving now would mean something he wasn’t ready to give language to. Something finished. Final. And after everything—her memories, her anger, the grief punched into the walls of that room—he couldn’t bring himself to accept that. Not yet.

He knew what she was capable of. Grace could be brutal in a way most people didn’t understand—precise, surgical, unflinching. But cruelty wasn’t her nature. It was armour. Her sharpest edge always came when she was most exposed. She used it the way he once used silence: not to hurt, but to avoid being hurt. The ugliest things she’d ever said had come wrapped in blood and panic, handed out like knives to anyone who got close enough to see the tremble underneath.

This time had been different.

The things she’d shouted through the panic room door weren’t just weapons—they were truths, twisted into something jagged. Not to protect herself, but to wound. That was how close he’d gotten. Not just to the past she’d buried, but to the part of her still raw. The part that trembled. That trusted.

And he’d hurt her.

Not startled. Not frightened. Hurt.

He hadn’t done that before.

A sound pulled him from the thought—soft steps in the hallway. Careful. Close together. Then her silhouette, cut sharp against the honeyed spill of corridor light, appeared in the doorway.

She didn’t speak.

No apology. No glance in his direction. Just walked in like someone returning after wreckage—unannounced, uncelebrated, but alive. Her movements were quiet, precise, as she sorted through the folded clothes Sam had brought earlier that day. She changed slowly. Stripped the day from her skin in deliberate pieces. Folded what she took off with the same measured care.

It was ritual, not routine. Something to anchor herself to. To prove the room was real. The moment was real. That she was here, still making choices.

He watched without comment. Still as stone.

She didn’t acknowledge him. Didn’t ask why he hadn’t left or tell him to go. Just climbed into bed, stiff and silent, her back turned to the room. She curled toward the window, the blanket rumpled beneath one shoulder, her body bundled in more layers than she’d worn in weeks.

That, too, said something.

He waited. Just a moment longer. Then moved—slow and quiet, careful not to shift the air too much. He lifted the edge of the blanket and drew it over her shoulder, tucking it in with the same patience he might’ve used to set down a weapon.

Not to warm her.

To shield.

She didn’t stir. Didn’t speak.

But her breath caught—sharp, almost imperceptible. A fault line beneath the surface. He felt it echo down the length of his spine, settling somewhere under the ribs.

He eased back, spine pressing to the headboard. Hands folded loosely in his lap. He watched her—watched the small, fragile rise and fall of her back beneath the quilt. The quiet hum of a body trying to hold itself together.

Then—

“Bucky.”

His name, not whispered but soft. Weightless. Like a thread cast into the dark.

He went still.

Didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t look.

“I meant what I said.” Her voice was flat. Even. The bare edge of a truth stripped of emotion. “I chose it.”

A pause.

Then the breath—the kind a body has to wrestle out of the chest before it can go on.

“But everything else…” Her voice thinned. “I didn’t mean it.”

The silence after stretched. Unhurried. Dense with the shape of things unsaid.

And then, smaller than the rest:

“You’re not a liar.”

His chest lifted. Sank. The exhale came slower than he meant, but it steadied something inside him.

“I know,” he said.

And the quiet, at last, held.

*

It was a long night.

Bucky had spent countless nights awake—haunted by dreams, by memory, by the blunt force of guilt. But those hours had always circled back to him. To what he’d done. What had been done to him. Self-pity disguised as penance.

This wasn’t that.

There was nothing in him now that needed attention more than her.

With the dark pressed close around them and nothing left to say, he let himself think. Not about the fight. Not even the panic room. But the moments he hadn’t had the stomach to examine—when he’d told her she was safe. When he’d held her like he was something safe.

When she trusted him.

And he took that trust the same way they had. Quietly. Absolutely. Without asking.

Sedating her had been the plan. It had been necessary. But that didn’t change what it meant. Not to her. Not after everything.

He’d always suspected the shape of her past. But suspicion hadn’t prepared him for hearing it. For knowing it.

The rage he felt for Klaue was different than the fury he carried for HYDRA. Deeper. Dirtier. Because HYDRA had only ever wanted a machine. Klaue wanted a slave. And he broke her slowly. Warped her until even her choices weren’t her own. Groomed her into silence.

That was worse.

He looked at her.

She’d shifted through the night, restless beneath too many layers. Sweat at her collar. Words in her sleep. His name, once. Her brow tight. She was facing him now; her features caught in soft morning light.

He hadn’t really studied her face in weeks. Not like this. Not since Bucharest.

It was a young face—delicate. No laugh lines. A smoothness he’d once mistaken for naivety. But now, he knew better.

Her nose, her lips, her eyes—so wide. All the things that told his mind she’d been innocent.

She had been. Before Klaue.

He didn’t believe she chose HYDRA. Not really. Not in the way people meant when they said choice. People like them—who’d been owned, shaped, bent into things that fit inside cages—they didn’t choose. They survived.

He’d ask her when she was ready. If she ever wanted to talk. But it wouldn’t change a damn thing.

Because he knew who she was now. Who she really was.

Not what he hoped for. Not what he imagined. But Grace—raw, defiant, real.

And she was his.

Not his to claim. Not his to keep. But his to protect. His only friend since he became this. Maybe the only one he’d ever have.

He didn’t wake her. Not when the sun came up. Not when it reached its peak and spilled heat across the floorboards.

He just stayed.

Watching her breathe.

Because no one was going to hurt her again.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Grace had been awake for nearly an hour before she opened her eyes.

Bucky must have known. Her breathing had shifted—shallower, more deliberate—but he hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t moved. She could feel the weight of him in the mattress beside her, concentrated near her head. Sitting, not lying. Still.

He wasn’t thumbing through his notebook. Wasn’t fidgeting or pacing. He was just there. Quiet.

The light was low. She couldn’t tell whether it was early morning or late afternoon—the colour behind her eyelids gave nothing away. There’d been no scent of coffee, no sound of cooking. No marker of time, only the hush of a house in retreat.

It felt like a pause. Like if she stayed still enough, long enough, she could pretend it was yesterday. Before the photograph. Before the name. Before everything slid into place with such brutal finality that it knocked the breath from her lungs.

If she’d never looked, she wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t remember.

Wouldn’t have to carry it.

But Grace couldn’t stay in the in-between forever.

And for all that she was, for all that she had done—she wasn’t a coward.

She opened her eyes slowly.

The motion felt loud—wet, deliberate. Like peeling back something that had sealed in the dark. A soft, unmistakable announcement: you’re still here.

She lay on her side, facing Bucky.

He wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were fixed somewhere beyond her, toward the narrow window where light cut across his face in a smear of grey-gold. The colour of indecision. Neither day nor night.

“You can sleep longer, if you want.”

His voice was quiet. Not flat—but unweighted. Like he’d rehearsed every inflection and chosen the one least likely to tip her off balance.

Grace blinked once.

“You haven’t slept.”

He shrugged, gaze unmoved. “You might have needed something.”

She swallowed. Her throat rasped like paper. “It’s late, isn’t it?”

“A little past three,” he said. “Afternoon.”

She nodded faintly. Her body felt slow. A half-second behind everything. She hadn’t meant to sleep that long. Then again, she hadn’t meant to wake at all. Not after the way she’d—

“I remember all of it.”

The words escaped before she could decide how they should sound. They came out wrong. Unfiltered. Like a puncture.

“What he did. Where I was. What I was for.”

Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

But she felt him watching now—quietly, carefully. The way someone watches a ledge for signs of a fall.

“I told you once I didn’t think I had a childhood,” she murmured, eyes drifting past him to the far wall—blank, undemanding. A place to rest her stare without consequence. “But I did.”

The words hung there for a moment, thin as breath.

She exhaled.

“I just don’t think it counted.”

At that, he turned.

She didn’t see it. She felt it. The quiet weight of his attention as it shifted toward her—steady, unintrusive. Like gravity, not command. A space carved open just for her to fill.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she said, cutting in gently. Then, softer still—like the truth might rupture if she touched it wrong: “I need to.”

He nodded. Once. A movement without pressure.

And waited.

She inhaled, slow and shallow.

“Ulysses made a name for himself raiding smaller cartels,” she said. “My father was low-level—expendable. When Klaue landed, he didn’t hesitate. Shot him on sight. Burned our house. My mother was still inside.”

Her fingers curled in the blanket. Not trembling—anchoring.

“I knew what he’d done. But he said it was a mistake. Said he felt terrible. That he’d love me like his own to make up for it.”

She paused. Her mouth moved, but no sound came at first. Like the sentence didn’t want to exist.

“I was so young. I believed him.”

Her throat worked to clear the next thought.

“I kept thinking I’d run out of value. That my parents' deaths wouldn't be enough forever. So I did everything he asked. Even when I knew it was wrong.” She swallowed. “And I was so good at it.”

Her voice was flattening now—thinner, further away.

“I didn’t even know what I was being trained for. Just that he wanted me useful. That he wanted me to survive.”

Not loved. Not safe. Useful.

And that had been enough.

Bucky’s voice came gently. Almost inaudible.

“How old?”

She furrowed her brow.

“He gave me the serum just after I started bleeding,” she said. “And after that…” She shook her head, once. “Age gets complicated.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was dense. Slow. Like the air itself had to rearrange around the truth.

“I stopped pushing back,” she said quietly. “Stopped wondering if anything was right or wrong. I just… obeyed. That was all I wanted. To please him. To make him proud. To make him—”

She broke off. The shame lodged mid-sentence like something physical. Sharp. Her chest ached around it.

Bucky’s voice came soft. Anchored.

“The serum amplifies what’s already there.”

She nodded—barely.

“They tested it on kids because of how malleable they are,” he added after a pause. “Before me. Before the Winter Soldier program took shape.” His voice remained level. But something in the room contracted. “Most of them didn’t survive.”

The silence returned—not clinical. Not even reflective. Just… true. One of those truths so old it felt prehistoric. Permanent. Curled in the gut like cold iron, years—or decades—after it was born.

Then Bucky asked, steady and low: “What about HYDRA?” A pause. “Where do they come in?”

Grace didn’t answer right away. Her gaze stayed fixed on the blanket, fingers running along a single fold like it might come apart if she stopped.

“He asked me to go,” she said at last. “Ulysses.”

Her voice didn’t shake. It was too dry for that. All the moisture had already gone somewhere else—somewhere unreachable.

“That’s how it always worked. He could’ve ordered me. But he knew I’d be more devoted if I thought it was my idea.”

She ran her thumb along a seam that didn’t exist. A compulsive gesture. Self-soothing, though it never worked.

“I knew he was manipulating me,” she murmured. “I felt it. Under the words. In the way he said them. But it didn’t matter.” She drew in a breath, slow through her nose. It didn’t steady her. “I still wanted to prove myself.”

Her hands had stilled, but her jaw was tight.

“HYDRA paid him for me,” she said. “Two super soldiers, I think. I never saw them. Just boarded the chopper. Focusing more on how obedient I looked than what might happen to me.”

She didn’t lift her head. Didn’t look at him.

And Bucky didn’t speak.

The silence between them felt old. Like it had been there before either of them. Just waiting for someone to name it.

“I thought it was a mission,” she went on. “A way to earn back his favour. Capture the Winter Soldier. Bring him home.”

Her mouth twisted. Not in disgust—shame. A quiet, clenching distortion that pulled the words tighter as they landed.

“I thought he trusted me with something important.”

The next words dropped lower. Smaller.

“I realised the truth when I landed. Russian facility. HYDRA’s stink stamped over Soviet concrete.”

Her voice began to slow.

“They wiped me. Layered in new controls. Installed trigger words.”

She turned her head, rested her temple against the pillow. Her body felt wrong—like scaffolding propped around something missing.

“Within four months, they sent me after you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Pressurised. Thick with something that had no name—only weight.

Then Bucky spoke.

“That’s when I escaped,” he said. The words landed like dropped metal. “After the Potomac.”

She heard it in his tone—not apology. Not self-pity. Just guilt. Dense and formless. The kind that filled the lungs like smoke. The kind you didn’t lay down, only carried.

She let out a breath through her nose.

“Ulysses always wanted you.” The bitterness in her mouth was sudden and startling—iron-heavy. It coated her tongue. “He used to call me his legacy,” she said. “Said I was the next evolution.”

A pause. Then, quieter:

“But all he ever wanted was you.”

The truth of it sat like acid on her teeth. It didn’t matter how well she’d obeyed, how perfectly she’d survived. She’d always been a second draft.

Her body moved before her thoughts did. She sat up fast—like the shame might shake free if she moved hard enough—and dragged both hands down her face. Her skin felt too tight. Her chest too thin for breath.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?”

It wasn’t a whisper. Wasn’t a cry. Just flat. Hollow.

Like the floor had dropped out from beneath her and she was still trying to land.

“Fuck.”

She didn’t cry. Wouldn’t.

But something ached. Deep and raw. Like someone had taken a wire brush to the inside of her ribs and left everything scored.

She didn’t move. Didn’t look at him.

And still—he stayed.

Behind her, Bucky shifted. Just enough to draw breath.

The breath you take before stepping toward someone who might not let you close.

“So,” he said. “What now?”

Grace turned her head.

His face was unreadable. No pity. No judgment. Just stillness—held like breath in the body. His posture was tense but grounded, as if he’d braced for every possible answer and promised himself not to flinch at any of them.

“I’m going to wait here,” she said. Each word chosen with care. Not soft—but careful. “Until Steve arrives.” Her throat felt like it had been sanded raw. She didn’t clear it. “And then I’m going to let him take me to the Raft.”

A flicker passed across Bucky’s brow. The faintest crease. It was gone in a blink, but she saw it.

“Grace—”

“Bringing you in was my mission,” she said, before he could continue. “From Ulysses. From HYDRA. That hasn’t changed.”

She swallowed—slow, dry, painful.

“Sam was right. If I slip back into either protocol—if either of those voices gets through—I’m dangerous. To you. To him. To anyone in my path.”

His jaw locked. It was subtle, but unmistakable.

“You’re not taking me anywhere.”

Her voice tightened.

“Then I go back to Ulysses. And then what, Bucky?”

The silence that followed was immediate. Like someone had cracked the vacuum seal on the room and let the oxygen bleed out.

She saw it hit him. Not fear—something deeper. Recognition. The dawning understanding of what she’d survived. How early it had started. How far down it went.

“Do you… want to go back to him?” he asked.

His tone wasn’t hard. It wasn’t soft, either. Just… level. Even. Like he knew the answer might ruin them both.

She hesitated.

“No. I— I don’t know.”

The truth of it—bare, helpless—landed like a blow to her own ribs. It made her want to fold inward and vanish. Not hide. Disappear.

“But I don’t have a choice—”

“You have a choice.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It came clean-cut, sharp with conviction. “With me, you always have a choice, Grace.”

She didn’t think. Didn’t plan. The answer spilled from somewhere deeper than that.

“I want to stay.”

It landed raw. Unfiltered. Like a wound, not a declaration.

Across from her, Bucky’s breath caught—quiet, almost imperceptible.

“Then stay with me.”

She shook her head. Her throat burned. Something lodged beneath her breastbone and refused to move.

“You can’t offer me that—I can’t.”

The words fractured in her chest as they escaped. She shoved back the blankets and stood, movement jerky, imprecise. Her knees ached. Her skin didn’t feel like it fit anymore.

Bucky rose, too. Not in front of her. Not in her way. Just—present. Upright. Waiting.

“We’re not the same anymore,” she said. Her arms folded tight across her body, every line of her pulled in like scaffolding trying to hold. “What I did—I did knowingly. That was me.”

“No.” His tone cut through the air—firm, but not unkind. “That was a kid who’d been trained to believe she owed something to the man who killed her family.”

She flinched. The words didn’t slap—they sank. Deep. Like iron into water. She could still feel them as they settled.

“You were groomed,” he said. “You were abused. Steve’s not going to throw you in a cell for being a victim.”

She turned from him.

Her back was straight, but her spine felt like a cable stretched too tight. One wrong word and it might snap.

“I’m not like you,” she said. “You were made into something. I chose it.”

“You’re not like me?” His voice broke upward—too bitter for amusement. Almost a scoff, but there was no distance in it. No detachment. “You think I never chose it?” he asked. “You think I never let it happen, because it was easier than remembering who I used to be?”

That stopped her. Not physically—but something in her spine faltered. Her breath hitched, invisible.

He stepped forward, careful not to close the gap. Not yet. He didn’t reach for her.

“I’ve killed people on instinct,” he said. “You’ve killed people on command. You want to compare debts?”

She turned, slowly.

Her eyes burned, but didn’t spill. Her face was set like stone.

“I don’t want to be forgiven,” she said.

“I’m not offering it.” His voice had dropped again. Solid. Certain. Like a hand offered palm-up. “I’m offering you a way forward.”

She stared at him.

One jaw muscle clenched. Then again. Her eyes closed—hard—like she could shut the world out if she just held still long enough.

Then she shook her head.

Not refusal. Not dismissal. Something more fragile. Like she couldn’t bear to want what he was offering.

She turned away again. A sharp pivot. Arms folding across her ribs like she could hold her own structure together.

Behind her, she heard him move. One step. Then two.

And then—his hand.

At the back of her head. Gentle. His fingers slid into her hair, slow and cautious, like she might bolt.

He didn’t pull. Just held. A touch to ground her.

“Grace.”

Her name, breathed like something sacred.

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Every instinct screamed to recoil. Not from him—but from the moment. The gravity of it. The hope embedded in it. She didn’t want to see it in his eyes. Couldn’t bear the weight of that belief. She wasn’t built to carry it. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

“I won’t chase you if you run,” he said. His voice had gone rough around the edges. Tired. “I promise. I won’t stop you.”

Her throat burned. The door was still open. The hallway behind her yawning like a grave. One step and she could disappear. It would be easier. Cleaner. Safer. Cut the line now before it tied tighter.

Before it strangled.

His fingers moved. Slid forward to her jaw. Tilted—guiding, not forcing—until her eyes met his.

“But you have to choose this. Choose me.”

His eyes were bloodshot. Raw. Unflinching.

Something in her buckled. Something small and exhausted and starving.

No one had ever asked her to choose. They’d taken. Commanded. Programmed.

He was offering her a decision.

And she hated him for it.

Hated that he was making her want to say yes. Hated that it would break something in her to walk away.

But staying—

Staying might break more.

Her face folded. It started at her mouth—a tremble, that helpless scrunch like a child trying not to sob. Her hands twitched at her sides, indecisive. Then her brow crumpled, and the air left her in a quiet, stuttering exhale.

She nodded.

Once.

Then again—harder.

Because if she didn’t keep nodding, the permission might be revoked. She wasn’t sure she could survive that.

Bucky didn’t wait.

He caught her. Pulled her in hard—one arm around her back, the other cupping the back of her head like something fragile. Fierce. Protective. His hand stayed pressed to her scalp, not stroking, not soothing—just holding. Anchoring her where she swayed.

And she collapsed against him.

Not because she trusted the moment.

But because she didn’t know how not to.

Fists bunched tight in the front of his shirt, knuckles white. The fabric twisted beneath her grip. She didn’t speak. Didn’t sob aloud. Just pressed her face to his chest and cried—silent, shaking, furious with herself. But real.

And he held her like he meant it. Like he’d never let go.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The water was hot. Not warm. Not comforting. Scalding.

It reddened her skin, raised fine tremors across her limbs, turned the inside of her eyelids raw. She leaned into it anyway, letting it blister the thin film of sleep still clinging to her. Her scalp prickled as she tipped her head back, submerged her face, held her breath until her lungs ached and the thrum behind her eyes pulsed louder than thought.

They had slept. Eventually. Her and Bucky. Not together. Not apart. There’d been no line at times between where one of them ended and the other began. Just his body beside her and the slow descent into stillness. And when she’d woken—hours later—it had been to the rise and fall of his chest. Steady. Alive. She hadn’t dared move.

But now—morning again. And the dreams had returned. Not conjured shapes, not fractured metaphors. Just memory.

Clear as glass. Sharp as bone.

Context, it turned out, was no comfort at all.

The nightmares had been bad before, sure. But now? They were personal. Targeted. Her past clawing its way out of the dark to collect on a six-month debt. Punishment, with interest. As if the guilt of her waking hours weren’t enough. As if her own conscience had decided to hold vigil every night, reminding her of each name she didn’t know, every life she’d ended with mechanical precision. As often as they were in the way as she was ordered.

And part of her—too large a part—agreed with the judgement.

She’d lived, so she had to suffer for it. That was the exchange. The ferryman didn’t take coin from the guilty. He took penance in the currency of sanity.

Her eyes opened. Steam wreathed the corners of the glass. Her reflection glimmered, barely visible.

Her body was covered in scars.

Some she’d seen before and puzzled over. Even thought to pity herself for their unknown origin. Now she knew them. The serrated wound near her hip—an ambush, a shiv, a panic kill. The clean incisions on her spine—where they’d installed the panel system. Ulysses’ design. Of course it had been.

Her body had never been hers.

It belonged to him. To his ambition. He'd touched it when he pleased, modified it when it suited him. Told her how to stand, how to be, how to slit a throat in silence. What to eat. What to say. What to be.

Now—tentatively—she had it back. Her body. Her life. Her choice.

And she didn’t know what to do with it. Or what she had a right to try and achieve.

She pressed her palms against the tiles and let her head hang.

There was just so much red.

The little girl in the village. The man cowering in the corner. The boy soldier who couldn’t even lift his rifle.

She sucked in a breath that didn’t want to come.

Last night, she’d said she wanted to stay. She hadn’t been coerced or tricked, not manipulated or deceived. She’d chosen it. Chosen him. Bucky. Her ally. Her… friend. Her only friend. The only person to ever see her as something more. She’d said the words aloud, but the shame of it hadn’t lifted. That thing inside her—the clawing, weeping thing—had just collapsed in relief and hidden again.

Because whatever she’d chosen, whatever human part Bucky had somehow excavated and could singularly keep alive—she still remembered what she was. What she’d done. She couldn’t pretend the girl in Romania had been real. She hadn’t been anyone. Just the empty space where memory used to be.

Bucky wanted her redeemed. Wanted to believe the girl he met in Constanta could become something more. He didn’t understand that that girl had never truly existed.

Steve wouldn’t believe it either.

And Sam—Sam already knew. He’d seen the violence in her before the tears. He’d clocked the difference. The calculation. The edge.

And when they locked her up, when they put her in the Raft, she could comfort herself with the thought that she hadn’t stopped trying. That she’d at least attempted to live up to Bucky’s faith in her. That she’d failed, yes—but not because she quit. Not because she was weak.

This would be the hardest thing she had ever done.

And it would break him to see her fail. But for once, it wouldn’t be her fault.

It was more than she deserved.

But Bucky wouldn’t be content—wouldn’t find peace—if she didn’t do everything within her power to try. If she was going to ask for what she hadn’t earned, she had to at least start by doing something right.

She had to tell Sam.

Everything.

About Ulysses. About the deal with HYDRA. About what she’d done. What she was made for. And what she knew was coming.

Even if it undid her. Even if it confirmed every suspicion Sam already had. He would only find out at a later point anyway.

Because this weapon could not be reforged.

*

She dressed without thinking, each movement automatic, mechanical. The fabric caught on skin still pink from the shower, leaving a faint sting in its wake—unimportant, but grounding. The house around her hadn’t yet exhaled. No footfalls in the hall, no plumbing clicks behind the walls. Just that fine-edged stillness that came with early light—filtered, muted, reluctant. A hush that made room for choices.

When she stepped into the kitchen, Sam was already seated.

He didn’t rise. Didn’t speak. His gaze lifted from the tablet beside his coffee with the calm watchfulness of a man braced for detonation. One hand rested on the table, near the screen. The other remained curled around the mug like he’d never stopped weighing it. There was no aggression in his posture, but nothing inviting either. Just a readiness. Measured. Entirely composed.

Grace paused just long enough to take it in—the lack of performance. No bluff, no grin, no warmth to soften the air between them. He was here as himself. And he expected the same of her.

His eyes drifted to something behind her. She didn’t need to look to know. She felt Bucky’s presence at her back like a weather front—steady, unmoving. Not looming. Not protective in the usual sense. But there. A line drawn in quiet allegiance.

In the corner, the two broken stools had been stacked out of the way. Four remained.

She approached and selected one without deliberation, lowering herself with a fluidity that offered neither deference nor challenge. Her spine held straight. Her palms flattened against the edge of the counter. Not submissive. Not confrontational. Just still.

Sam’s gaze never dropped. And he said nothing.

But the silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was waiting.

The silence held. Not void—heavy. It pressed in around them, thick with the weight of all that had been done, said, withheld. The air felt tense, not with threat, but with scrutiny. No one moved. No one blinked.

“I’ve agreed to surrender myself to the Avengers,” Grace said, her tone neutral. Uninflected. A fact, not an apology. Not an offering. “Until a formal decision is reached.”

Sam’s thumb traced along the curve of his mug. His face didn’t shift.

“So long as I remain coherent,” she continued, “I am not a threat to you or anyone else. And I grant full consent to necessary restraint in the event of relapse.”

It wasn’t the phrasing she would’ve chosen on her own. But it was precise. Legal. Bucky had helped her structure it that way—detached enough to pass scrutiny, specific enough to count. Still, it had been her decision to speak it aloud. He hadn’t wanted her to say it at all; she’d seen it in his eyes. But if she was going to do this, she was going to do it her way. No hiding. No trickery. No manipulation.

Sam’s gaze flicked to Bucky again. She didn’t follow it. Didn’t need to. The man behind her didn’t speak, but his stance was declaration enough. This wasn’t neutrality. He stood on her side.

Sam’s jaw moved, once. Then he gave a slow nod. “I’ll take you at your word,” he said. “Just… don’t make me regret it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The words slipped out of habit, clean and automatic. But they landed badly.

Sam’s brow twitched. Not quite a wince, more a reflexive grimace—an old ache surfacing. He raised a hand. “Don’t. We’re not doing that. I’m not your commanding officer, and I’m not here to keep you caged.”

Grace paused, then nodded again. Smaller this time. Less like protocol, more like understanding.

The tension in Sam’s shoulders eased—fractionally. He leaned back just enough to shift the dynamic, but not enough to relax.

“So,” he said, voice low. “What do I need to know?”

She didn’t answer. Not right away. Her gaze held on the scarred grain of the countertop, breath slow, hands steady. It was time. But the telling—that was hers to decide.

She turned her head—just slightly—until Bucky came into view. He hadn’t shifted, hadn’t spoken, but he stood fixed behind her like a column sunk into the foundation. That was his way. Always present. Never imposing. A weight behind her spine that wouldn’t budge, even if she broke.

He didn’t try to steer. Didn’t try to save. He simply stayed. Braced to catch her, but unwilling to dictate the terms of the fall.

She hadn’t recognised that kind of strength before. Not when all she’d ever known was force. Submission. Orders barked and followed. But now—now she understood it. And it humbled her.

Her fingers curled against the counter. When she turned back to Sam, her voice didn’t shake.

“Ulysses Klaue loaned me to HYDRA,” she said. The words came clean, stripped of emotion. “In exchange for two enhanced operatives. It was a trade. Temporary. My mission was to locate the Winter Soldier and bring him back.”

Behind her, Bucky didn’t react aloud, but she felt the subtle shift of weight—the kind of movement people only made when they were steadying for impact. Not denial. Not protest. Just the quiet concession of a man used to being handed the truth second-hand.

Across from her, Sam’s brow creased—not in horror or pity. Something closer to calculation. A soldier parsing battlefield intel. Aligning motivations, timelines, leverage points.

“They didn’t share a vision,” she went on. “HYDRA wants order. Klaue wants disruption. The alliance was brittle from the start—neither of them ever planned to honour it.”

Her jaw twitched once. She didn’t let herself flinch.

“They wiped me the day I arrived. Put me in the chair. Ran the machine.” A breath. “I woke up as one of theirs.”

The silence stretched. Sam didn’t ask what that meant. He didn’t have to.

His gaze slid momentarily to Bucky. The shape of that reality lived between all three of them now. Secrets were a privilege they weren’t owed.

“But you remember?” Sam asked, the question quiet.

She nodded once.

“Their hold only lasts as long as they reinforce it,” Bucky said, his voice low but exacting. “Without repeated use, it breaks down. Eventually.”

The edge in his tone wasn’t anger. It was memory—tight, unyielding, and iron-wrought.

Sam tapped his knuckle once against the side of his mug, eyes still fixed on her. “So HYDRA tried to steal you from Klaue. You broke from both. Now no one holds the leash.”

Grace gave a single, contained nod. “He would have anticipated that. He doesn’t rely on order—he thrives on contingency. Chaos is his theatre. As long as he’s the one directing it.”

Her face didn’t shift, but a muscle in her jaw ticked. The kind of tension born from long familiarity, not fear. Not fresh.

“He doesn’t lose pieces,” she said. “Not without making someone pay for the disruption.”

Sam tilted his head slightly, watching her. “So what does he do next?”

“He waits,” she said. The answer came without hesitation. “Lets HYDRA move first, because they will. They’re fractured. Cornered. That’s precisely what drove them to him in the first place. He’ll let them burn their hands trying to reach me, and he’ll watch. Certain he’ll still come out ahead.”

There was no anger in her tone. No panic. Just the flat, echoing cadence of a truth that had calcified over years of learning it the hard way.

“Thinks you’ll go back to him,” Sam said, more observation than question.

Her voice barely wavered. “He believes I’m still his.”

Sam didn’t let the moment pass. “Are you?”

“No.” She meant it. She did. But even as she said it, some part of her knew the answer wasn’t entirely hers to give. Not yet.

Not if he came for her in the right way, at the right time. Not if he reached in and found whatever they hadn’t burned out of her.

She felt Bucky’s hand graze her lower back. Quiet reassurance, hidden from Sam.

“I imagine he doesn’t like having his toys taken,” Sam murmured, almost to himself.

Grace opened her mouth—

“She’s not a toy.”

Bucky didn’t raise his voice, didn’t step forward. But the air changed. His words cut through the room like a steel edge dragged slow across stone.

Grace’s spine snapped straight. Her gaze fell to the table, unreadable.

Sam’s hands lifted, palms up. “That wasn’t how I meant it.”

“I know,” she said, too level. Too calm. “But it’s how he meant it. Always.”

The silence that followed didn’t need to be filled.

“He won’t let this go,” she added, quieter now. “Not to HYDRA. Not to the Avengers. I’m his. And he doesn’t lose.”

Sam studied her, eyes narrowed slightly, then ran a hand down his jaw in a slow drag. “So, what’s the bigger threat?”

“HYDRA,” she said at once. “They’re fractured. Desperate. They’ll strike first. Klaue will hold back. He enjoys the show.”

Bucky’s voice was quieter, more speculative. “If we make it look like she’s still on task—still trying to bring me in—he might believe the mission’s still alive. At least for now.”

Grace nodded, measured. It wasn’t a plan. Not really. But it passed for one in a crisis. She’d offered the idea upstairs, somewhere between exhaustion and strategy—not because she believed in it, but because Bucky needed to believe there was still time to manoeuvre.

“It might buy us some time,” she said. “But I don’t know how to stage it without putting us on half the intelligence watchlists in Europe. It might not be worth it.”

Sam blew out a breath through his nose, mouth tightening. “That’s above my paygrade. That’s Cap territory.”

He leaned back slightly, but his gaze stayed locked between the two of them. Assessing. Already spinning out what came next.

“Which—before you ask—I’ve got nothing on. No check-ins. Radio silence.” His pause was brief, but deliberate. “And we’ve got a more immediate problem.”

Grace felt her spine lift. So did Bucky.

Sam’s eyes passed between them before he spoke again, each word heavier than the last. “We didn’t exactly make a clean exit from Romania. I thought we’d be gone in a few days. Maybe a week. Wasn’t planning on digging in this long.”

Bucky’s jaw shifted, slow and deliberate. “How much risk are we talking?”

Which was his way of asking how careless Sam had been in the rush to get them out.

Grace didn’t need to guess. Her body answered for her—blood gone sharp, skin tightening at the back of her neck like someone had sighted her through a scope.

“Between the highway and my no-show at the Ultron cleanup? Doesn’t take much. If someone’s watching closely, the thread’s already tugged loose.”

“Is there somewhere else we could go?” Grace asked. Her posture didn’t change, but she leaned forward slightly, shoulders bracing.

She could feel Bucky watching her—quiet, evaluative—but didn’t turn.

Sam shook his head. “Not this side of the Atlantic. Only other option is mainland Europe.”

Which would drop them square in HYDRA’s shadow. Possibly right into their hands.

“What are our options?” Bucky asked, voice tightening at the edges.

“I told you,” Sam said, folding his arms. “We’ve got a problem.”

Grace pressed a hand over her mouth, resting it against the ridge of her knuckles as she dropped her gaze to the table. Thinking. Calculating. Trying to breathe around the cold that had settled in her chest.

Bucky steepled his fingers and stared past the countertop, his eyes unfocused—but not blank. Just far away. Hunting something.

It was Bucky who broke the silence first, his tone low but measured. “You said your skillset was surveillance.”

Grace glanced at him and gave a small nod. “Mostly avoiding it,” she said. “But that works both ways.”

Sam’s attention flicked between them, narrowing slightly.

“This place—is it secure?”

Grace considered the question with care. She turned to Bucky, then back to Sam, folding her arms on the counter as her brows drew together. “From intrusion, yes. It’s designed to hold. Not to fight. We’ve got trip sensors, thermal grids, pressure alarms—but the radius is shallow. By the time they’re tripped, we’d already be inside the net.”

Sam exhaled, gaze lowering. “And you know I can’t arm you.”

“If HYDRA comes,” Bucky said quietly, “you’re going to wish you had.”

Grace raised a hand, cutting him off. Not dismissive. Just efficient. There was no use in arguing a point that made sense. Her eyes dropped to the counter, mouth pinching slightly in thought. Then—

“What if we widened the radius?”

Sam looked up.

“If we could monitor out to a mile,” she said, “we’d have time. Enough to fall back, initiate lockdown, even make it look like we were still inside. It wouldn’t hold long, but it might give us the edge we need to get away.”

Fighting HYDRA right now wasn’t an option. Not after what happened when they were caught off guard. Grace had barely managed to get them out and she wasn’t sure she could do it again. Wasn’t sure she’d make the same decision.

The thought sat like a weight in her chest.

Like she’d already lost something important that belonged to the name Grace.

Sam’s hand went to the back of his neck. “That’s not a bad idea. But I’m one man. I can’t run a twenty-four-hour watch.”

“We rotate,” Bucky said.

Sam blinked at him. “You can’t leave the house.”

“There is… an alternative,” Grace interjected. Her voice softened—just a little. Not out of hesitation, but caution. Her gaze swept between the two of them before landing on Sam, almost sheepish.

His reaction was immediate: a short, derisive breath that almost passed for a laugh. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Grace shrugged. “I told you. I sleep better when I know what’s going on.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What am I missing?”

“Sam has hardware,” Grace said. “Advanced surveillance tech.”

“His name,” Sam cut in, tone flat, “is Red Wing. And he’s been in his case. In my room. Where he belongs.”

Grace didn’t look at him. “From what I could tell, Red Wing is designed for tactical overwatch. With constant feed monitoring, we could cover most of the nearby fields, maybe even parts of the road.”

There was a pause.

“That’s... actually not the worst plan,” Sam admitted. “Pain in the ass, but doable.”

Bucky raised a brow. “We’re trusting our lives to a drone you named?”

“He’s not a drone—” Sam began, exasperated, “—and how the hell do you know what a drone is, but not how to work the coffee machine?”

Bucky stood, the scrape of his chair quiet against the floor. “You can’t kill anyone with a coffee machine,” he said over his shoulder, already heading for Sam’s room.

Grace’s brows lifted, utterly deadpan. “Well, that’s a matter of opinion.”

Sam looked at her, mouth slightly open.

She didn’t elaborate.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The safehouse didn’t settle. It didn’t hum. It didn’t breathe.

The walls were too thick for wind. The floor too polished for groans. Nothing moved unless a person made it, and no one was moving.

Red Wing sat docked in its cradle beside the screen, charged and waiting, one diode blinking faintly—too faint to see unless you were looking.

Grace had vanished sometime after final perimeter check. No goodnight. No brush of shoulder or breath. Just gone. The door to their room had stayed open, but the light never came on. She didn’t make a sound. Not even in sleep.

Bucky sat in the living room, alone, one boot planted, the other tilted against the edge of the table. The air felt too still. Too curated. Like even the silence had been designed by Stark’s engineers—pressurised, sterile, precise.

He was on the first rotation. Six on, twelve off. They’d worked it out that morning. Grace and Sam had taken the bulk of the prep—configuring blind spots, calibrating the drone feed, building failover routes in case of breach.

She hadn’t spoken to Bucky all day.

Because she was working. Like it was all she had left.

Not the same woman who’d ambushed him in Bucharest. Not the one who’d asked—softly, hesitantly—if she could stay beside him after the nightmare. But she hadn’t circled back to either version. Just drifted further.

Somewhere in between. Somewhere new.

She hadn’t cracked a tentative joke. Hadn’t made a face. Hadn’t asked him a single damn question.

She was quieter now. More contained. Less reckless. There was something behind her eyes that hadn’t been there forty-eight hours ago. Something that spoke not of defeat, but of distance. Like the part of her that reached out had been folded away for safekeeping.

He’d seen that look before.

Not on her.

In the mirror. On long nights. When memory and mission blurred, and the only thing left was endurance.

Still—she hadn’t asked him to leave the bed.

She didn’t curl toward him. Didn’t reach for his hand. But she hadn’t shut him out, either. His presence behind her—unmoving, unspoken—still mattered. Still grounded her, maybe. Even now, even like this. Like some part of her still believed he was safe.

He wasn’t sure how long she could hold that line. The weight she was carrying now wasn’t made of orders or memories—it was expectation. Pressure. The need to be accounted for. The way she imagined eyes at every window. HYDRA’s. Klaue’s. Sam’s. Maybe even his.

Steve’s, when he came. Because he would come. And Bucky had a feeling Grace feared his judgement most of all.

They were more alike now than they’d ever been.

Not in pain. In posture. In how they coped with it.

She wasn’t trying to avoid being dangerous anymore. She was trying to be something worse—harmless. So stable, so restrained, that she was turning brittle. A threat to herself through sheer tension. Through the suppression of anything unpolished.

Humanity, for people like them, wasn’t a default state—it was a muscle. And just when hers had started to strengthen, she’d stopped using it. He didn’t think it made her cold. Just cautious. Too cautious. As if stability could only exist if she disallowed every other instinct.

That was what Klaue had trained into her, wasn’t it?

Be useful. Or be replaced.

He shifted in his chair. The armrest gave a quiet groan beneath his elbow.

Across the room, the tablet blinked to life—bright for a second, then dimming again.

A moment later, she emerged. Barefoot, hooded, hair scraped back into something utilitarian. The same grey sweatshirt she’d worn every night since Sam had found her new clothes—hoodie up, sleeves pushed past the wrist like she needed her hands free. No softness to it. Just readiness.

She didn’t look at him. Just crossed to the drone terminal and keyed in the wake protocol. Her fingers moved fast, efficient—command after command stacking across the screen.

“Sam’s out,” she said, eyes never leaving the display. “You’re on for the next six hours.”

He rose, moving beside her.

“Alright. Walk me through it.”

She glanced at him, assessing—not aloof, not unkind, but stripped down to function. Then she stepped aside, already lifting the headset.

She handed it over with one hand and adjusted it with the other, tightening the strap behind his ear. Her fingers brushed his temple, light and impersonal. No hesitation. No weight. Like she was handling equipment.

The glow from the interface caught her face in profile—bone-deep shadows under the cheekbone, a faint pull between her brows. She looked pale but not hollow. Weathered, but not undone.

“Red Wing’s flight path is preset,” she said, voice low, steady. “You just monitor the feed. Audio’s direct. Visual toggles here.” She tapped the edge of the headset, careful not to touch him again.

Bucky’s vision swam for a moment before the screen settled.

“That’s… nauseating,” he muttered, blinking.

“You get used to it.” Her tone didn’t change. She adjusted another dial. “If it registers heat signatures or movement, it auto-switches. No delay. You’ll see what you need to.”

He nodded. “And if I see anything?”

“You wake me.”

The words came clean, without inflection. Not a warning, not a request—just the verbal equivalent of a signed directive. Procedure. Already agreed. Already filed.

Bucky glanced sideways. She stood in profile to him, outlined faintly by the monitor’s low wash. She hadn’t turned. Hadn’t softened. Hadn’t tried to meet him in the space between. Just laid out the line and expected him to walk it. Like he was another part of the system—an asset, deployed.

Something in his gut went tight.

He shouldn’t ask. Not yet. Not when the silence between them was still functioning. But the question had been needling him all day, dull and steady like a splinter beneath skin.

She’d bled on the highway. Stood in the line of fire, waiting. Seconds had passed before the suit activated. Seconds too long for his comfort. And in the kitchen, when they’d sedated her, when she should’ve been defending herself, there’d been nothing. No mask. No shield. No protection.

He cleared his throat, low.

“Sam’s the only one allowed to be armed.”

He didn’t phrase it as a question. He didn’t have to.

Though he was already planning to find out where Sam kept his stash. He wasn’t going to sit here blind and polite the next time a HYDRA team crashed through the walls. Not when Grace was sleeping under the same roof.

Her head tilted, but she still didn’t look at him. “Good thing this game’s about defence,” she said softly. “And in that regard, I’m singularly qualified.”

Bucky hesitated.

“Can you control it now?”

She stilled. Just for a second. A flicker across her jaw—small, but not insignificant. Then, without a word, the mask snapped up. Gunmetal-black and liquid-clean, it sealed over her features with a hiss too soft to register. There was no sound of machinery, no mechanical clunk—just the clean seal of something alive obeying. Then, just as fluidly, it dissolved. The plates rolled backward and vanished into the vertebrae of her spine, leaving nothing behind but skin and quiet.

Grace raised a single brow. Not smug, exactly—but the look held edge. Confidence. Precision. Like the question had been anticipated, and she’d just handed over the answer in full.

A surprised laugh slipped out of him—unexpected and unguarded. Low, almost startled. He didn’t realise until that moment how tightly the question had been coiled inside him. The release of it left him slightly winded.

Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But it was something—flickering in the dark like static between frequencies. She gave a small nod and stepped back.

“Well, goodnight.”

She turned for the stairs.

“Grace.”

She stopped. Half-turned. The light caught her cheek, her temple. Her face had changed—unlocked, almost. Like she was expecting a question that mattered. A real one.

But Bucky didn’t meet her eyes.

“Why didn’t your suit activate,” he asked, “when we sedated you?”

The change was instant. Not defensive. Just… still. Whatever space had softened between them froze. Grace turned slightly, her gaze angling to the window, where her reflection stared back at her from the dark.

“I suppose control is the wrong word,” she said finally. “It can’t be controlled. Only… communicated with.”

Her voice was neutral. Not flat, but stripped of decoration. She turned back toward him. Something worked in her jaw.

“It didn’t see you as a threat.”

Bucky’s brows drew low. “But you did.”

There was no accusation in it—just a reach. A tether thrown out into space, hoping it would catch somewhere soft.

Grace didn’t answer. Her gaze drifted downward instead, settling on the arm that caught the light. She moved toward him—not slowly, but with intention. Not a flinch in her step, not an ounce of uncertainty. Just the measured quiet of someone preparing themselves for something they didn’t entirely understand.

Her eyes found the exposed metal beneath the short sleeve of his t-shirt, the dull sheen muted in the low light. She studied it with a soldier’s eye—thorough, clinical—but something else moved beneath it.

“What does it feel like?” she asked.

No shift in tone. No loaded weight. Just a question.

And Bucky—Bucky didn’t freeze. Didn’t retreat into silence or steel himself for the discomfort. He was too surprised by the fact she’d asked at all. The truth came out before he had a chance to dress it up.

“Cold,” he said. “Other than that… not much. Pressure, sometimes. No heat. No texture.”

Her gaze stayed on the arm, then lifted to his face. He could see the next thought form behind her eyes before it reached her lips.

“How did you feel the first time you saw it?”

He let out a breath. Not a sigh. Just an old weight shifting.

“I didn’t know it was gone,” he said. “I just woke up like this. With this dead thing welded to what was left.”

He flexed the fingers. The metal clicked faintly in the silence, not unlike a jaw tightening.

“It’s never been anything else.”

That part didn’t need elaboration. The truth of it sat between them like something half-finished and still bleeding.

The arm had never been prosthetic—it had always been purpose. Assignment. A tool to complete whatever directive came next. It had been torn off in the field more times than he could count, each rebuild climbing higher. First the forearm, then elbow, then bicep. Now the whole shoulder. They’d carved away everything soft, then bolted the rest into steel. He wore it like a patch over a missing shape. A reminder, never a recovery.

He didn’t touch people with it unless he had to. Not even in passing. With her, he’d tried—at first. He didn’t know why. But after she’d startled awake one night with her bare shoulder pressed to the cold seam of his socket, he’d learned better. She’d jerked away without thinking, breathing hard in the dark like she couldn’t figure out what had touched her. He’d taken the other side of the bed from then on. She never asked why. And he never brought it up.

It was better that way.

Grace stepped in, closing the space between them with slow, measured ease. No warning. No flare of tension. Just a quiet purpose to her movements, like each step had already been decided.

She lifted her hand, and the suit followed. It scaled down her arm in a single ripple, the vibranium blackening her skin from shoulder to fingertips. It didn’t hiss or hum. Just moved. Smooth. Controlled. She flexed her fingers once, watching them curl, then reached for him—not his shoulder, not the metal. She took his other hand. The human one.

Her palm settled against his, and he felt it immediately.

A current. Subtle, steady. Not warmth, not energy, but something like intention. The feeling of being recognised. Not by her. By the suit.

“Mine isn’t like that,” she said, quiet.

She wasn’t looking at him—her attention fixed instead on their joined palms, where the suit had curled itself to her skin, coating each finger in muted black. “It isn’t just metal. Not really. It’s warm. It… feels.” The words came cautiously, as though they weren’t hers to speak. “Even when I didn’t.”

Her mouth twitched, faltering. A faint crease formed between her brows.

“I don’t control it,” she added, quieter still. “I can only ask. It makes its own judgments. On what’s safe. What isn’t.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

The memory struck hard and uninvited.

The farm. That night.

He’d been so focused on her stillness—on the fact she hadn’t pulled away—that he hadn’t stopped to consider how he’d touched her. A hand braced on her hip. Fingers grazing her ribs. Her wrist. Gentle, yes. But steady. Decisive.

And what would that have felt like to someone whose body had only ever been claimed? Bruised. Owned.

He looked down at their hands again—hers still humming against his. A soft, steady vibration. Like a heartbeat, but not hers. Something separate. Something watching.

It had known.

It had always known.

“It thought I was safe,” he said, not quite a question.

She swallowed. A breath hitched in her throat, small and sharp.

“It still does.”

She didn’t look at him. But the words landed like a blade she hadn’t meant to draw.

And something in him gave under the weight of it.

He didn’t let go. Not yet. The warmth of her hand lingered, that quiet hum running the length of his palm. Not a warning. Not resistance. Just presence. Like it was speaking for her. Like it had been all along.

He should have left it there. Lingered in that moment for as long as he could.

But his voice came anyway. Rough-edged. Too low.

“And you?”

Grace stilled.

For a moment, she didn’t move. Then her hand slid from his, and the cold it left behind settled fast. She didn’t retreat as if stung—just enough to make space. Enough to breathe.

“I trust you,” she said.

It was the kind of lie that didn’t need correcting.

He didn’t move. Didn’t look away. Just let the silence steep until she finally glanced down and exhaled.

He could’ve left it again. But some bitter, ruinous part of him needed the wound exposed.

“You said I wasn’t a liar,” he said. “What about you?”

Her chin dipped. Not guilt. Not shame. Something quieter. Resigned.

She folded her arms across her chest, and the suit obeyed—receding in a seamless ripple across her skin.

“I trust you to be who you are,” she said. “Even when I hate it.”

Her voice didn’t shake. But her shoulders did. Barely. A shrug by any other name.

He’d wanted her truth and he’d got it.

She turned. Took a step.

Then another.

“Grace.”

She paused on the third.

He didn’t soften the words. Didn’t let them tremble.

“I still trust you.”

She stopped in the doorway. One hand resting against the frame. Her profile half-lit by the low light from the screen behind them.

When she turned back, it wasn’t fully. Just enough that he could see the shape of her expression—flat, unreadable.

“You trust a piece of me,” she said. “The part that trusted you first.”

He had no argument. Because she hadn’t lied.

And then she left him there. Alone, again, with the ghost of her warmth still fading from his hand.

*

Bucky heard Sam get up before he saw him.

The faint thud of dresser drawers. The squeak of hinges. The sound of a zipper, smooth and steady. He moved with the efficiency of someone used to early hours and unfinished business. By the time he stepped into the living room, dawn was smearing the horizon in bruised mauve, and Bucky’s eyes felt like they hadn’t closed in days.

“Shift change,” Sam said, voice even.

Bucky pulled the headset off, glad for the excuse to scrub his palms down his face. He handed it over without a word. Sam slid it on, adjusted the strap, and set his laptop down on the low table without missing a beat.

“Any activity?” he asked.

Bucky shook his head. “Just a fox. Persistent bastard.”

Sam offered a faint grunt in response, too tired to fake amusement. He opened the laptop, tapping through startup commands with one hand while the other cradled his coffee. But he clocked the fact that Bucky hadn’t moved from the couch.

He didn’t mention it at first.

Just waited. Watched the screen. Took an irritatingly loud slurp every minute or so.

But Sam never left anything unsaid for long.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked finally.

Bucky’ eyes flicked sideways. His temple was pressed into the curve of his fingers, metal arm dangling over the backrest, legs sprawled like gravity had given up on keeping him upright. The look he gave Sam wasn’t hostile. Just bone-deep and hollow.

Sam leaned back, eyebrows raised. “Alright. I was just asking. Lot of shit’s gone down. Enough to make anyone’s head spin.”

That—was not untrue. Bucky could barely tell which way was up, and it had been like that for over two months. He was not blind to the common denominator. But he was in too deep to do anything about it.

It wasn’t quite hopelessness. Or desperation. But something right in the middle. It had to be for Bucky to feel like he had no choice but swallow his pride and tell Sam what was on his mind.

Bucky exhaled through his nose. Looked away. Rubbed at the bridge of his nose, eyes gritty. Then: “She’s different now.”

Sam nodded, slow and measured. “Can’t blame her. Klaue sounds like a real piece of work.”

Bucky’s jaw shifted. “You’ve got no idea.”

The silence stretched. Sam didn’t break it. Just took another sip and stared at the readout like it mattered.

Then, after a while—quietly:

“You think Steve can help her?”

Bucky’s posture stiffened a little. That name wasn’t a landmine, but it wasn’t far off. He sat up a fraction, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice, when it came, was guarded.

“I haven’t known him in seventy years.”

Not really. Not in the ways that counted. The man who’d sent Sam to find Bucky had done it out of loyalty to someone who no longer existed. And Bucky didn’t know if that loyalty would stretch far enough to include Grace. Not as she was now.

Sam nodded, a thoughtful breath leaving him. “I don’t think a man like that changes all that much. If she’s serious—if this is what she wants—he’ll give her a chance to prove it.”

There was a pause.

“If what is what she wants?” Bucky asked.

It came out sharper than intended. Defensive, almost. As if Sam had questioned the legitimacy of her progress—or his part in it.

Sam didn’t bristle. Just shut his laptop and fixed him with a steady look.

“You know what I used to do. I pulled her out of that panic room. You know I’ve seen this before.”

That was his credentials. The context for what followed.

“Sometimes,” Sam said evenly, “people just don’t want to be saved.”

“She doesn’t want to go back,” Bucky snapped. “She’s not playing a role. She’s not scheming.”

“I didn’t say she was.” Sam leaned forward, lacing his fingers between his knees. “I’m saying it doesn’t matter what she wants if she can’t live with what she’s been.”

Bucky looked away, jaw tight. The inside of his cheek bitten raw.

“And if she can’t?” Sam pressed. “If she cracks—if she runs—what then? You gonna be okay with that?”

The answer formed in Bucky’s mouth, sharp and ready. But it caught in the net of something older. Something harder.

Because the truth was: if Grace couldn’t be saved, then he couldn’t be either. They were mirrors. Not the same history, but the same bones. And maybe it made him a coward to put her first—not for her sake, but for his. Maybe it made him selfish. A hypocrite. Maybe it made him a goddamn fool.

But he had to believe she’d survive it. Because if she didn’t, then what the hell had he been holding on for?

Sam watched it cross his face. Every grim conclusion. Every half-spoken defence.

He sat back, giving him room. The pressure eased, but wasn’t gone.

Bucky slumped further into the couch. Not broken. Just emptied out.

“You almost sound like you care what happens to us,” he muttered. Because bitterness was all he had left to shield himself with.

Sam didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk.

He just raised his mug.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve been accused of.”

Bucky stayed slouched on the couch, one hand curled loose over his knee, the other digging absently into the line of his jaw. Across the room, Sam adjusted the headset, murmuring something low as Red Wing flickered through its cycle—distant wind and rustle of underbrush piping through the feed. The drone hadn’t picked up anything. Not yet. But Bucky had stopped expecting danger to announce itself.

Above them, a floorboard shifted—too quiet for Sam to notice, but not for him. He knew the rhythm of her steps now. The weight of her silences. Another turn, another breath punched into the pillow, another fight she was losing in her sleep. He didn’t move. Didn’t check. Whatever he’d offered her that night—whatever warmth and touch she’d accepted—wasn’t part of this version of her. And maybe that was fair. Maybe she needed distance to stay sharp. But it didn’t stop the ache in his chest, low and constant, like pressure against a wound that wouldn’t close.

Above him, she settled again.

Sam watched the trees.

And Bucky sat in the middle of it all—awake, waiting, unsure which fracture would break first.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Grace had stopped counting how many days it had been. It was hard to track with eighteen-hour cycles and it hardly mattered anyway.

Three, maybe four. Long enough that the clothes Sam brought her no longer smelled of their folded creases. Long enough for the blood beneath her fingernails to fade. Not long enough to feel clean.

She didn’t feel clean.

She felt… honed. Like a blade dragged across a whetstone. Sharper, harder. But with that edge came something brittle. It wouldn’t take much pressure to snap her. Not if the wrong blow landed in the right spot.

Sleep didn’t come easy. When it did, it was short and fractured—full of half-dreams and things she’d rather not remember. Her body adjusting to spending her nights alone once again. Her memories. Her choices. And what they’d all cost.

In the quiet, her mind moved like a metronome. Surveillance rotation. Exit strategy. Choke points. Red Wing’s flight pattern. Bucky’s tells. Sam’s reflex time. The location of the panic room keycard. What could be used as a weapon if she needed to.

Not because she expected anything to happen. But if it did, and she wasn’t ready, then she didn’t deserve to live.

She’d lived too long on borrowed time already.

Luck was not a skill.

By the time Sam came downstairs, the kitchen was already warm with the scent of oatmeal and instant coffee—the limit of her cooking skills. It was marginally more enjoyable with a large glob of peanut butter in it. For protein, she told herself. She’d been awake since four, eyes on the monitor, checking logs. Red Wing had flagged a badger and a heat signature from a nearby carpark. Both false alarms.

She didn’t comment on Sam’s entrance. Just slid her eyes briefly toward him, then back to the screen.

He gave her a look. Not unfriendly, not anymore. Just measured.

“Morning,” he said, reaching for a bowl.

Grace didn’t answer. Not because she was trying to be cold—but because the word felt unnecessary. Superfluous.

She was here. She was working. That was all that mattered.

Sam moved like someone who’d slept. Who trusted the walls around him. His hoodie was half-zipped and clean, hair still damp from the shower. She didn’t envy it—comfort like that came at a cost—but she noted it. Logged it. A different kind of soldier.

He sat with his breakfast, flicked through Red Wing’s data stream, and gave a quiet grunt when the feed buffered.

“You were up early,” he said eventually, not looking at her.

“I was awake.”

Another non-answer. But he didn’t push it. Just scraped his spoon through oats and started typing.

Across the house, she heard the soft thump of boot hitting floorboards. Bucky. His shift had ended an hour ago, but she’d seen him pass through to the unofficial armoury twice since then. Sam’s hiding place hadn’t been very inventive, but he’d found it in an impressively short amount of time. That being said, he’d obeyed the rules and hadn’t touched a single weapon. He was just restless. Waiting for something to go wrong and refusing to be unprepared.

She understood it.

He came in a few minutes later, dressed but not put together. Hoodie half-on, sleeves pushed up. Hair still damp but not from a shower—he’d run a cloth over his face at most. His eyes moved straight to her before scanning the screen.

“Anything?” he asked Sam.

“Nothing new. The same car’s still parked down near the back lot, but it’s empty. Red Wing got a clean look at the plates. Rental.”

Grace didn’t look up. “No ID match. No return activity.”

Bucky hovered by the counter. She felt his presence the way you felt a weather change—low and shifting, not quite charged, but circling something.

“We should move,” he said after a moment. “We’ve been here too long.”

That made her glance up.

Sam raised an eyebrow, still chewing.

“There’s nowhere to go,” Grace said simply. “Not unless you want to try mainland.”

She didn’t say the rest. They all knew what mainland meant.

“The trail is lukewarm at best,” she added. “Moving means forfeiting that.”

Bucky’s jaw shifted, the heel of one hand braced against the counter. “It’s not about running. I just—don’t like this house.”

That surprised her. Not the admission, but the way he said it—low and level, like he wasn’t embarrassed by it anymore. He wasn’t one for comfort, but something about the place unsettled him and he’d become more and more vocal about it as the days went on.

“Safe doesn’t always feel safe,” she muttered.

His gaze flicked to her.

“Steve still hasn’t responded,” Sam said, breaking the tension. He closed the laptop slowly. “No pings, no bounce-backs.”

Bucky straightened, but didn’t speak right away.

“He’ll answer,” he said finally. But the words didn’t have weight. They landed flat, like a dull blade.

Grace watched the way he said it. The way even he didn’t believe it. She could see the shift behind his eyes, the tug of something insecure and unsure. He didn’t feel betrayed yet, but he was starting to wonder if he’d made the right choice.

Well, it was a bit late for that.

Sam leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “He’s not ignoring me, if that’s what you’re thinking. If Steve’s quiet, it’s because something bigger’s coming down the pipe.”

He looked at Bucky.

“You’ve seen the news, right?”

Bucky’s silence was answer enough.

Grace didn’t need to check either. She’d clocked the tension in Sam’s jaw the last time he closed his phone. The simmer of something unspoken.

It was coming.

And whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Something shitty enough to make even Steve Rogers hesitate.

“The Accords,” Sam said, confirming what they’d all danced around and avoided for at least two days. “They’re about to sign.”

Grace’s brows lifted. Bucky didn’t move, but his jaw went taut.

Sam gave a single, short nod. “UN session’s scheduled for three days from now. Vienna. Stark’s backing it. So is the King of Wakanda.”

That explained the silence. The delay. Unlike Bucky, Grace had been following the situation closely. And if what Sam said was true, then this was the worst possible outcome.

“What does it mean for us?” Bucky asked.

“It means you’re about to be declared illegal,” Sam said. “Both of you.”

Grace tilted her head. “We already are,” she said dryly.

“Not like this.” Sam leaned forward, elbows on the table. “They’re formalising it. Making it global. Anyone enhanced who isn’t signed up gets marked as hostile.”

Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. The movement was slow. Heavy. Reality sinking in. “And Steve?”

Sam shrugged. “He’s not picking up. But I know him. If he’s quiet, he’s working on something. Probably trying to negotiate.”

“You said Stark is backing it,” Bucky pointed out, crossing his arms. “How does that work?”

“Because they’re individuals. The Avengers are a team, not another of Tony’s companies. He can’t make any of them sign the Accords.”

“But if half of them sign and the other’s don’t—what does that mean for us?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Sam said, tone gaining a hard edge as his irritation shone through. “Between surveillance shifts and answering questions you have the tools to answer yourself.” He gestured at the television screens dotted around.

Grace let out a quiet breath and moved toward the back wall, where Red Wing’s equipment lay in neat formation beside the charge dock. She crouched and began checking the thermal lens kits by touch alone, her mind already shifting into work-mode. Movement meant distraction. Routine. And the creeping sense of inevitability didn’t feel so sharp when her hands were busy.

She felt Bucky’s eyes on her back.

Sam’s too.

“We need to be ready to move,” Bucky said, not for the first time. “This place isn’t safe.”

“And where do you suggest we go?” Sam asked, voice tired.

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

Because he didn’t have one.

Grace didn’t look up from her work. She slotted a lens into place, closed the latch with a decisive click, and only then did she speak.

“If we move, we risk exposing ourselves further. Europe is the lion’s den, the States are suicide, and staying here means the same thing eventually.” She looked up. “Pick your poison.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked.

Sam ran a hand over his scalp. “We need Steve.”

Grace’s expression didn’t change, but she stood slowly and crossed to the table, setting the calibrated kit beside the tablet. “And Steve won’t answer.”

They were going around in circles. Had been for three fucking days. The loop just kept getting larger.

“I’m aware,” Sam said. He was watching her carefully now, like he didn’t quite know what to make of the way she carried herself. “Doesn’t mean I’m giving up.”

“No,” she said. “It just means we’re running out of time. But since our only option is to sit here and wait, it doesn’t make much difference.”

Sam didn’t argue. Just pressed his lips together and dropped back into his chair, the sound of it scraping faintly on the floor.

Grace stared at the flickering screen and felt the weight of it again. They weren’t hidden. Just unnoticed. For now.

“I’ll double the night radius,” she said, voice flat. “If anything gets closer than half a mile, we’ll see it.”

Bucky was still standing. Still watching her.

She didn’t meet his eye.

“I’ll take the late shift,” she added.

“No,” Sam said, not harshly. Just firmly. “You’re on rotation. Like everyone else.”

Grace didn’t answer. She bent again, checking the feed route against her manual map log, adjusting the line of sight on three corners. The system had blind spots if you knew where to stand. She was working on those.

“You’re not proving anything by running yourself into the ground,” Sam added.

“I’m not proving anything at all,” she said without inflection. “I’m surviving. There’s a difference.”

He exhaled, long. She didn’t care if it was annoyance or agreement.

She finished her recalibration and clicked the tablet off. Straightened. Picked up her mug, now cold.

“I’ll be upstairs,” she said.

Bucky moved as though to follow, then seemed to think better of it.

She paused at the doorframe. Her eyes flicked to Sam, then briefly—almost imperceptible—to Bucky.

“You’ll wake me if anything changes.”

Not a question. An order. Quiet, but not uncertain.

Then she disappeared upstairs, her footsteps soundless.

*

The room was too quiet.

Not silent in the way she needed, but in the way that made every sound feel deliberate. The buzz of an outlet. The faint click of a water pipe settling. The steady, accusing beat of her own pulse.

She lay stiff beneath the covers, sweat dampening the neckline of her sweatshirt. Too many layers, but the cold still found the gaps. A thread of light cut through the blinds, striping the opposite wall. Every time she closed her eyes, her brain rewound it. That line. That fault. That opening.

Her legs itched beneath the fabric. Her skin prickled. She hadn’t moved in hours, afraid of what she’d shake loose if she did. But the memories came anyway. Slipping in sideways, like smoke under a locked door.

Blood, but not from a fight.

Her hand between her legs. The bright, sick horror of it.

Another flash. Fingers like claws, clamping her hips so tightly she couldn’t breathe. Not to hold her in place—but to use her. To move her. That rhythm, the way it jarred through her spine.

She curled inward so sharply her knees hit her chest. One hand dragged over her face, then settled at her mouth. Just in case.

Go away. Go away. Go away.

She couldn’t cry. She wasn’t allowed to. That was the rule.

But her throat hurt. Her chest cracked. Her fingers trembled against her lips. The sob that broke free didn’t make a sound, but it felt like being torn in half.

Her shift started in under an hour.

She couldn’t keep doing this.

She couldn’t tell if the weight pressing against her lungs was panic, or just the past refusing to stay dead.

She didn’t hear the door open. Only felt the change in the air.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch or roll or speak. She just froze, limbs locking down as if that might make her invisible. Breath caught in her throat. The heel of her palm still covered her mouth, shaking faintly.

Bucky said nothing at first.

The door clicked shut again, softer this time. Then—nothing. Not even a step. Just the tension of his presence at her back, dense as humidity.

Grace turned away from it. Slowly. As if her body belonged to someone else. She shifted to face to wall, keeping her shoulders hunched and head low, trying to blink herself back into her armour. Her lungs pulled tight. Her fingers curled around the edge of the blanket.

“I’m coming,” she croaked, voice rough with salt and sleep and silence. “Just—give me a minute.”

“Grace.”

Her whole spine knotted at the sound. Too gentle. Too knowing.

She shook her head, fast and short.

“Please,” she said. “Just go. I just need—”

Her voice cracked.

She smoothed it beneath her hand again, furious with herself.

Bucky didn’t leave.

She felt the shift in the air again—then a step. Then another. His warmth reached her before the bed dipped. Heavy. Solid. She nearly curled tighter against it.

“What do you need?”

His voice barely carried.

Grace didn’t answer.

She pulled the blanket higher instead, like it might hide the state of her body from him. A child’s shield.

“Grace, talk to me.”

Another pause.

“Are you scared?”

She gave a low, humourless laugh. It nearly choked her.

“I’ve never not been scared, Bucky.”

“You’re safe here,” he said. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. I promise.”

“Bullshit,” she spat. “You can’t promise that. And fuck you—because it already happened.”

She didn’t mean to say it. But it was out now.

And she couldn’t breathe around it.

The silence didn’t scold her. It didn’t react at all. It just waited—low and steady—while the words she’d thrown settled like ash. Grace pressed the side of her face harder into the pillow, letting the weight of the fabric ground her. Her nose was half-blocked. Her breathing felt uneven, unearned. She hated crying. Hated that it felt weak, indulgent. She hated even more that she couldn’t stop once she started.

Bucky’s weight didn’t shift beside her. He wasn’t going to leave.

“Please,” she said again, quieter now. The word barely more than a breath, scraped from somewhere deep. “Just go away.”

He was silent for so long she thought maybe he’d listened. Then, at last: “Is that what you want?”

Her mouth opened—but no sound came. She blinked against tears, wiped at her face with the inside of her wrist, and tried to find words that wouldn’t make her choke. Of course it wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t know what she wanted. No—that wasn’t true. She did. But to ask for it felt… manipulative. Ungrateful. Desperate. Even sick. And wrong.

So instead, she said, “I just want it to stop.”

Bucky shifted at that. She felt it. Heard the creak of his elbow as he leaned forward. “Make what stop?”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The memories were back again. The sick, slanted images. A shadowed room. Her own arm dragged above her head. Someone grunting, not her. The bruises that bloomed and stayed too long. The sound her shoulder made when it was yanked out of socket. Her body hadn’t even finished growing. But the damage had. It was layered into her. There, in her hips. Her ribs. Her spine. Her waist.

Especially her waist. The anchor point.

Her hand gripped the edge of the blanket, knuckles whitening. She was sweating under all these clothes. Her skin felt foreign. Branded. It was suffocating.

“I just want it to stop,” she whispered again, almost without realising it. Not to him, not as a command. Just a truth. A plea sent into the air.

The mattress shifted behind her. Bucky didn’t touch her. Not yet. She could feel the decision hanging in the space between them, his hesitation not from fear but caution. He knew her too well to reach without permission right now.

“What do you need?” he asked at last. His voice didn’t push. It settled—low, steady, near her ear.

Grace’s throat worked. Her hands shook. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She was still too full of ghosts. Hands on her hips. Not holding—dragging. Pushing. Bruising. Years ago. A lifetime. But it lived under her skin like shrapnel that wouldn’t rise.

She wanted them gone.

“Do you want me to stay?” Bucky asked.

A pause.

Then, a nod. Small. One twitch downward of her chin on the pillow.

She didn’t hear him shift again, but he felt it when his warmth drew closer. He moved slowly, every inch offered not taken. Like a creature approaching a wounded one. He didn’t ask if she wanted to be touched. Didn’t put a hand on her shoulder or her back.

Just sat behind her. Quiet and breathing.

Grace stared into the dark. The line of light under the blind was still there, but she didn’t close her eyes against it. She focused on it. Let it burn a shape into her sight.

Her hand moved under the covers. Fingers slipping beneath the hem of her sweatshirt. She hesitated. Her chest rose and feel in a shallow, rhythmic tremor.

Then she tugged the fabric up. Slowly. Enough to bare the soft flesh of her waist.

Not all the way. Just enough.

And when she whispered his name, it was barely audible.

“…Bucky.”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

But she knew he’d heard her. She could feel it. Not in the way his breath caught—but in the way it didn’t. How it settled into something deeper. Grounded. Like he’d been waiting for her to say it.

And then she felt his hand. Just one. Flesh, not metal.

It hovered first. A fraction of an inch from her skin. He didn’t graze her. Didn’t dare. Only when she didn’t pull away—when she didn’t flinch or shake her head—did he close that distance.

His palm found her waist. No pressure. No weight. Just the contact.

Heat rushed beneath her skin like it had been held too long under water. She nearly jolted, but held. Her breath caught in her throat—not because it hurt. Not even because it frightened her.

Because it didn’t.

Because it was nothing like the hands that had grabbed her there before. Calloused fingers biting down into skin still too soft to fight back. Not cruel out of impulse, but method. Control. Claim. She remembered the way their thumbs dug into her hip bones. How she’d learned to disassociate before she even had the word for it.

But this… this was different.

Bucky’s thumb moved in a circle. Barely there. The kind of movement that didn’t demand. That soothed. That waited for the body to catch up with the mind. Grace felt her eyes burn.

Her arms were still drawn up around her head, hands beneath her pillow. But her back eased. Just slightly.

She breathed.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Didn’t need to.

And when Bucky’s other hand come to rest near her elbow—still careful, still silent—it was the first time in days that she didn’t try to pull herself smaller.

His hand stayed there. Warm and steady, never drifting lower. It didn’t explore, didn’t press. It just held. Like he knew exactly what she was asking without needing to say it aloud. And maybe he did. Maybe he had all along.

Her body began to uncurl, almost reluctantly. The tension that had carved itself into her muscles started to drain, not all at once—but in small, shuddering waves. She felt it give behind her ribs, in her shoulders, in he locked bones of her neck.

The weight of the blanket shifted slightly as Bucky adjusted beside her. She felt the rustle of his hoodie against the sheet. Heard the faint click of his jaw as he clenched and released it. He was trying to stay calm for her. Trying not to let the anything show. Because he wasn’t just seeing her pain—he never had been simply an observer—he was feeling it. Holding it. Matching his breathing to hers like it was a rhythm he’d memorised.

The moment stretched. Quiet. Almost holy.

And then, slowly, one of her hands left the pillow. It moved down, tentative and ungraceful, until her fingers closed over his. She didn’t squeeze. Just held on.

His thumb resumed its motion.

A single tear slipped across her nose, and she let it. For once, she didn’t try to hide it. Didn’t wipe it away.

Because this was the closest she’d come in years to being held without expectation. Just because. Just because she wanted it.

And it was terrifying.

But she didn’t pull away.

She didn’t know how long they stayed like that. It could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been longer. The kind of time that didn’t move forward, only deepened. His breath stayed low and even behind her. His hand never shifted.

And for the first time since those memories had clawed their way up—sharp-edged, uninvited—she didn’t feel like she had to outrun them. They were still there, yes. Still waiting in the cracks. But they weren’t swallowing her whole.

Not with this.

Not with him.

Her eyes burned again. Not like before—this wasn’t panic. It wasn’t shame. It was something slower. Older. The kind of ache that lived in marrow. That reached out, quiet and shaking, toward anything steady.

Her grip on his hand tightened—just slightly.

She didn’t need more. She wasn’t sure she could take more. But this?

This was something she hadn’t known she needed. A silence that didn’t echo. A body near hers that didn’t want. That didn’t take.

He shifted again, barely, and she felt his forehead press lightly between her shoulder blades. Human and fallible and present.

A breath left her she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

When she finally blinked, her lashes stuck together. Her vision blurred. But she didn’t wipe at her face. Didn’t move at all.

Because her body wasn’t bracing anymore.

It was remembering.

What safety felt like.

What it might feel like again. Someday.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

It was dark.

The high-tech blinds blocked out the morning glare, and the windows were thick enough to muffle the world, but the room still breathed. Quietly. Warmly. A soft rhythm of two bodies beneath one blanket, tangled by nothing but time.

Bucky lay on his side, head buried in the pillow, his flesh arm wrapped low around Grace’s waist. His palm rested bare against her stomach, just under the hem of his shirt—her shirt, technically, now stretched across the gentle slope of her ribs. She hadn’t asked to borrow it and hadn’t commented when she’d pulled it from the clean laundry. Just tugged it over her head and climbed into bed. That was the first time since she’d remembered. They hadn’t talked about it.

She slept on her side with her back flush to him, the tension in her spine slackened by what little rest she’d managed to fall into. Her breath rose and fell in steady, even pulls. Not deep enough to mean peace, but a hell of a lot deeper than it had been. He could feel it through the space where her ribs met his forearm, each inhale drawing her tighter into the curl of his body.

He kept his hand where it was—not for her, but for himself.

It was the only time he let himself feel anything.

He should have been asleep hours ago. Should have let the silence soothe him, lulled his nerves down into rest. But the quiet in this house was too perfect. No creaks. No plumbing noise. No inconsistent power hum. Just tech-sterile and the slow metronome of Grace’s breathing like she was fighting to stay human.

He hadn’t meant to notice. Not like this.

Not the way her body had thinned out, not the dry tightness around her mouth, not the fact that the bruises under her eyes didn’t fade with the rest. If anything, they’d deepened. Hollowed. He’d asked for the shift swap thinking it would help. If they could sleep at the same time, maybe she’d settle. Maybe she’d let herself recover from memory. But that wasn’t what was happening. She slept—but only when she dropped. Only when her body gave out.

And when she woke, she was already working.

Her rhythms were off. Her edge was back. Not the sleek, pre-programmed control she’d honed as Wraith, but the hard, brittle sharpness of a person trying too hard not to break. She didn’t snap. Didn’t even raise her voice. But he could see it—her swallowing herself down, over and over, trying to become something she thought they needed.

He’d asked her to stay. To trust him. To wait for Steve.

And she had.

But he was starting to wonder if asking her to stay had been the right thing. If he’d pushed too hard, too fast—convinced her that being still meant being safe. That silence equalled survival. That choosing him meant becoming whatever version of herself could be palatable to the people he believed in. She was trying to earn redemption that hadn’t even been offered yet. All because he’d planted the idea that she could be someone worth saving. Someone Steve might forgive.

And she was cracking under it.

Bucky stared into the dark. He hadn’t moved his hand. Couldn’t bring himself to. Not when the warmth of her skin still answered him. Not when she hadn’t pulled away. Not when, in the stillness, it was the only thing telling him she was still trying.

Soon, a thin halo of pale morning light bled around the edges of the blinds, casting a long, uneven band across the floor. It moved with the hour, sharpening slowly, inching its way toward the bed like a quiet reminder that the world outside hadn’t paused with them.

Grace didn’t stir.

He could feel her breath, slow and steady, expanding beneath his hand. His fingers splayed. She was so soft.

He wasn’t sure what this was—what it meant—but it felt like the beginning of something neither of them had words for. Not comfort. Not trust, exactly. But something gentler. The echo of what came after devastation. When all that was left was breath and contact and a shared understanding that touch didn’t have to hurt.

At night, at least, they weren’t Assets. Not to each other.

Bucky closed his eyes and let himself feel her against him.

He was trying so damn hard to keep her whole.

But part of him—the part that had survived too long—was starting to wonder if he wasn’t helping her heal, just holding her together long enough to break properly.

It was a thought that plagued him often. Only in a different way now.

She’d learned how to survive monsters. And survival, for her, meant performance. She mimicked the Grace he needed, the Grace Sam could work with, the Grace Steve might one day vouch for. Sharp, capable, even-tempered. Always one step ahead. Prepared to do anything. But underneath—he could feel it, even now—her edges were drawing tighter. The coil winding. Not because she was weak. Because she was trying to be something more than she was. More than what she’d been made into. And maybe he was the one who asked that of her.

Maybe the fact she could sleep now—next to him, skin to skin—wasn’t progress at all. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe she was clinging to him the way he was clinging to her, hoping that if they held on tight enough, it wouldn’t matter what they’d done. Who they’d been. What they’d survived.

Bucky shifted, just enough to press his forehead to the back of her head.

It was a small thing, but it grounded him. Reminded him that she was here, warm and breathing, and not drowning in whatever hell her mind conjured when the lights went out.

He needed this. Needed her, like this. Real. Still. Close enough to keep.

And maybe that made him selfish. No—it did make him selfish. He was going to wreck both of them, he knew it, but he just couldn’t stop. He couldn’t leave her, couldn’t stay away from her. She was the only person who knew what it was like. How it felt.

She shifted slightly in her sleep, one leg curling inward, her heel grazing his skin. The breath she let out was audible now, faintly nasal—half-exhale, half-sigh. He listened for tension but found none. Her body had slackened. Even her jaw, always clenched even in rest, had softened.

Bucky kept his hand where it was—steady but light. The heat beneath it was real. Not like his metal arm. He never used that one here.

He watched the ceiling until his eyes blurred, then let them drift back down to the crown of her head, the loose strands of hair caught in the collar of his shirt. The sight of it—his shirt on her body, no barrier between them but trust and time—should have given him peace. It didn’t. Not really.

Because he knew what it cost her to let him this close.

And he couldn’t help but wonder if she was only doing it for his sake. Sleeping beside him so he wouldn’t worry. Holding herself together just long enough to be useful. Because if she wasn’t useful, she had no idea what to be.

Neither did he.

He swallowed the thought and let his thumb drift slowly along the side of her waist. Not suggestive. Not coaxing. Just a signal.

I'm here.

She didn’t wake. But her fingers twitched in response.

He stared at the ceiling again, but his mind wouldn’t quiet. Not even with her pressed warm against him. Not with the weight of her body real in his arms. It should have anchored him. Should have made him believe they were safe for the night. Instead, it made the silence louder. The longer she stayed still, the more his thoughts spun.

It had been two days since the conversation about the Accords. Two days of continued silence from Steve. Two days of Grace continuing to push through every task like a blunt-force instrument, her edges honed too sharp to last. He’d seen it happening before she had—how brittle she’d gotten, how her discipline had turned to compulsion. A knife held so tightly it might cut the hand gripping it.

She wasn’t breaking because she was weak. She was breaking because she was trying to fucking hard not to.

He’d begged her to stay. Told her he wanted her to. That he’d find a way to make it work, to make Steve understand, to make the Avengers see the person underneath all the conditioning.

And what if she failed? What if Steve turned up and said no? What if the world came down on her anyway—and all she had left was the memory of Bucky fucking Barnes asking her to hope?

He held her tighter without meaning to.

Bucky closed his eyes. He didn’t sleep.

*

The afternoon sun streamed weakly through the wide windows, pooling in pale patches along the stone floor. Stark’s high-spec smart glass dampened the worst of the glare, but the light still caught on chrome fixtures and black marble, a sterilised luxury that didn’t quite suit the atmosphere.

Bucky stood in front of the mounted television, arms folded across his chest. His eyes flicked over the segmented coverage: anti-enhanced protests boiling at the gates of the Vienna International Centre; foreign dignitaries exiting black cars with polished shoes and pinned smiles; a tight-lipped Natasha Romanoff moving up the steps alone, her heels soundless on the stone.

Behind him, Sam sat on the couch, laptop open across his thighs, earbuds dangling unused around his neck. One had stirred a half-eaten mug of rehydrated noodles. The other flicked through satellite feeds.

Grace was in the kitchen. Not cooking. Not eating. Just seated at the breakfast bar with Red Wing’s control tablet propped against a thermos. Her hair was unbrushed, headset anchored over it. Every few minutes she togged between overlays, ran another diagnostic. She hadn’t spoken in hours. Just watched, logged, watched again.

Onscreen, the camera shifted. Another arrival.

T’Chaka. King of Wakanda. Flanked by aides and security, his son trailing at a respectful distance.

Bucky didn’t need the captions.

He saw the way the crowd changed. A different timbre to the shouting. He saw the guards subtly tighten formation, the way Prince T’Challa’s head turned, scanning for something.

The coverage panned again. Back to Romanoff. A man with a microphone pushed into her space, and she palmed him away with a smooth, practiced step.

Something in Bucky’s chest pulled tight.

Everything about this felt like a powder keg. And someone was holding a match.

He just couldn’t work out who.

He didn’t realise how tense he’d gotten until the screen flickered—just a minor signal stutter—but his shoulders drew tighter all the same.

“Jesus,” Sam muttered behind him. “They’re stacking the kindling.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He saw it too.

Security details had doubled. Protestors were pressing harder against the barricades. The noise—though technically muted—seemed to throb through the room. Like a fourth pulse. Off-beat and rising.

He glanced back, checking the room. Grace hadn’t moved. Her fingers danced across the control interface, but her expression remained fixed, unreadable. If she was nervous, she didn’t show it.

Bucky’s gaze returned to the screen. They were moments from opening speeches.

He hated this.

Every instinct he had was telling him something was wrong. Not the usual tightness he’d lived with since he’d escaped. This was newer. Wrose. Like his body was remembering a sound it hadn’t heard yet. The kind that came after silence. Before screams.

He stepped closer to the screen.

There was a cut in the feed. A switch to the interior—just a shot of the podium, tastefully staged, fronted by country flags. A line of delegates seated behind it, each face politely composed. Like they weren’t about to deem a whole bunch of people who had no choice illegal.

Then—static.

Sharp. Abrupt.

A flash of white and then—

Smoke.

Bucky flinched. The image reappeared—shaky, handheld now. A new angle, catching what the main feed had missed. A plume of thick grey, rolling over a collapsed barrier. Screams filled the audio as the camera operator scrambled for position. There was blood on the steps. Someone was shouting in German.

The banner above the stage had fallen, twisted metal caught in the edge of frame.

Bucky’s voice was low. Flat.

“Fuck.”

Grace moved before he called her.

The headset slid of with a practiced motion. Her bare feet made no sound on the polished floor, but Bucky felt her arrival all the same—like the gravity in the room shifted with it.

She came to stand beside him. Didn’t speak. Didn’t ask.

The footage had switched to a feed from outside: a wide shot capturing emergency vehicles converging on the compound, diplomats stumbling through dust. Camera lenses zoomed in on the chaos—bodies moving through smoke, the mangled wreckage of what had once been a platform. Limbs. Glass. Flags half-caught in fire.

Grace’s brows furrowed slightly. Her arms folded across her chest, one hand tucking under her elbow, the other fidgeting—small, erratic movements of her fingers beneath the cotton.

Sam closed his laptop and stood. “I need to make some calls.” His voice was quiet but clipped, already shifting into action. He didn’t wait for a response. Just stepped around them and disappeared down the hall.

They were alone now. Sam’s absence left a vacuum in the room, the kind that wasn’t filled by silence so much as tension. Bucky didn’t move. He kept his eyes on the screen, its replay stuttering through another pass. No commentary. No headlines. Just the clean, clinical violence of it. Slowed, dissected, fed to them frame by frame.

Grace stepped closer, arms folded tight across her chest, one hand tucking beneath the opposite elbow. Her other fingers fidgeted—thumb brushing a rhythm against her knuckle, like she hadn’t realised they were moving.

“That’s not an improvised device,” she said. Quiet. Flat.

He nodded once, the motion slight. “No.”

The explosion bloomed again, captured from a second angle—more of the crowd visible this time. Screams muted under looping static. A diplomat’s body thrown sideways in the blast, arms flailing before impact.

Her eyes narrowed. “Shaped. Directional. Compression-fired.”

Bucky said nothing. He didn’t need to. The recognition sat low in his gut like iron. That was Hydra’s signature—destruction engineered with precision. Wide enough to clear a plaza. Clean enough to leave a message.

“HYDRA,” he said, low.

“Or someone trained by them,” Grace murmured. Her eyes flicked to him, quick as a warning.

He didn’t argue.

The screen flickered. Another rewind. Another echo of smoke and flame.

She leaned in slightly, the crease between her brows sharpening. “Why the summit?” Her voice thinned. “Why now?”

Bucky turned toward her. She hadn’t moved far—just a few steps toward the kitchen station—but her posture had shifted. Shoulders drawn, chin lifted in defiance she didn’t seem to feel. Her hands, crossed tight beneath her elbows, wouldn’t stop moving. Her fingers tapped against her sleeve like a metronome ticking off some invisible countdown.