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Today, of All Days

Summary : You were self-destructing. Then, you found Bucky.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : friends to friends with benefits to lovers. Angst with a happy ending. Both sexual and non-sexual nudity. Reader used to be best friends with John Walker and Lemar Hoskins. violence, physical trauma, grief, guilt, self-destructive behavior, adrenaline-seeking as a coping mechanism, death, Set right after FATWS.

Word count : 16k

Note : Inspired by the song "Achilles Come Down" by Gang of Youths. Enjoy!

There had been a time when you would have called John Walker your brother.

And you weren’t doing it out of convenience or camaraderie. You called him and Lemar Hoskins your brothers because of your years in shared foxholes, sharing secrets, sharing victories and failures. You’d grown up with them both, meeting in high school as three kids who didn’t know a damn thing about the world but were convinced you could take it on anyway.

There had also been a time when you would have followed John anywhere. You followed him into battle, into danger, and into choices that made your stomach twist. Him and Lemar were family. They were the one constant, even when you were questioning orders from your country.

The three of you had your own gravity, and for a long time, that bond felt unbreakable.

But after Lemar died… the gravity collapsed. The three-point structure you’d built your entire life around suddenly snapped down to one unstable line.

You and John were still here, technically, but neither of you stood in the same place anymore. Grief changed people. But what grief did to John, and what it did to you, felt like being pulled in two different directions by invisible hands. And you couldn’t see him the same way, no matter how badly you wanted to see the version of him you remembered— the one who would’ve died for Lemar, not killed for him.

After all, you were there when it happened.

You were close enough to hear the gasp leave Lemar’s throat as he hit the pillar, close enough to hear the sickening crack of impact, close enough to see the light drain from his eyes even as John screamed his name. The two of you rushed to his side at the same time, knees slamming against concrete as if pain could jolt Lemar awake again.

“Hey man—hey, c’mon.” You pressed your hand against Lemar’s cheek, trying to steady your own breathing. “Wake up. Come on. Just look at me.”

“Hey, hey.” John’s voice cracked, trying to slap him awake like you both used to do playfully when he fell asleep on the bleachers in high school. “Lemar, Lemar!”

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Lemar’s body gave nothing back. His chest stayed still under your trembling palm. John was still calling his name, and you were still trying to haul him upright, even as hope had already slipped through your fingers faster than you could close your hands around it.

When the truth hit John, it hit like a detonation.

When it hit you, it was more like drowning.

You barely registered John stumbling to his feet, barely heard as he tore out of the room in search of someone, anyone, to blame. You didn’t chase him. Your world had narrowed to Lemar’s head slacking against your shoulder. You held him like he was still alive, still your brother in every way that mattered but blood.

Soon, your tears soaked into the fabric of his uniform. You brushed your thumb across his brow the way he’d once done for you after a bad tour, your voice a broken whisper against his temple.

“Lemar… I’m here. I’m right here,” you choked out, “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t see what John did next until much later. But you knew what he was doing.

You didn’t see John bring the shield down on that man. But only heard the distant, wet sound of impact.

You heard the distant shouting, the panicked voices, the rhythm of violence. And then the silence afterward.

That was when you realized that John Walker had transformed from a soldier into a broken man.

Later, much later, after Sam and Bucky wrestled the shield from John, Bucky came back to check on you.

Maybe he expected to find you standing over the body. Maybe he thought you’d moved on from Lemar’s side. But when he stepped into the room, he noticed you were still there, still holding Lemar as tightly as if letting go would make his death real.

Bucky didn’t speak at all. He didn’t try to pull you to your feet or tell you it was time to go. He simply walked over and lowered himself onto the cold cement beside you. The vibranium of his left arm scraped softly against the floor as he settled, but otherwise,he made no sound.

Your voice was barely audible now, no more than breath crossing your lips—“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”—on repeat, the words falling apart each time you said them. It was a confession of grief and guilt, until you didn't know where you ended and he began.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. You couldn’t tell.

Eventually, when your fingers loosened just slightly out of exhaustion, Bucky reached out. He didn't do it to pull or to take Lemar from you, but to help you ease him gently onto the ground.

You bowed your head, your hands still gripping the fabric of Lemar’s sleeve even as your body finally gave in.

When you did let go, it was surrender.

And after that moment, nothing between you and John could ever be the same.

–

You didn’t go back to anything after the mission ended.

After the GRC debacle, after Sam stepped forward as Captain America, after Karli’s death, you disappeared into your room in the temporary barracks the government insisted on giving everyone. You weren’t sure what they expected you to do there. Grieve quietly? Be a good soldier one last time?

Still, you didn’t leave. You didn’t sleep. You just existed between four walls and let the hours pass over you like waves you were too numb to drown in. You didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to hear anything, didn’t want to feel anything.

So when John came knocking, you didn’t answer.

“Hey… it’s me.” He tried.

Nothing.

He knocked again. “You in there?”

You heard every word. None of them stirred anything in you.

“Look, we should talk.”

You stayed silent, pressing your back to the wall. Every instinct told you to run, to hide, to shove a pillow over your head and pretend you didn’t exist. But a part of you that had loved him like a brother once, knew that he wasn’t here to brag, to demand, to argue. He was here to face you.

He eventually jiggled the handle. When he failed, he sighed, then spoke through the wood in a tired voice. “Please.”

He sounded small. So small it almost sounded like it belonged to someone else.

Finally, you unlocked the door.

John stepped in cautiously, his eyes scanning the room like he expected to find a gun in your hand.

What he found instead was you, his sister in arms, hollowed out by a kind of grief he didn’t have the vocabulary to process. You didn’t even tell him to come in.

“Christ,” John breathed. “You look—”

“Don’t.” Your voice wasn’t sharp, nor was it mean. “Don’t finish that.”

“I came because… I don’t know.” He swallowed, pressed a hand to his face. “I thought maybe we could figure things out.”

You nodded very faintly. He took it as permission to continue.

“No one’s heard from you.” He sighed, “you just shut down and—”

“Lemar died,” you said, but the words fell flat, landing like bricks. “The world should’ve shut down too.”

John flinched, and you just watched him struggle for words without emotion.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I know we’re both hurting, but we can’t—”

“You’re a piece of shit, John.” There was no anger or volume as you said it, the words coming out like a diagnosis. You were simply stating what everyone already knew but refused to admit.

He blinked, startled, and opened his mouth. “Okay. Fine. If you need to yell at me, then yell—”

“I’m not yelling.”

It unsettled him more than rage ever could have.

You stepped closer. It wasn't enough to be threatening, just enough that he couldn’t look away.

“I followed you to the ends of the Earth once,” you didn't pause or breathe. You laid it out as plainly as fact. “I believed you when you said the ends justify the means. You know that.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“We’ve done horrible shit in the name of our country,” you continued. “Things we don’t talk about because someone higher up said they were necessary. They told us it was patriotic. We knew it wasn’t,” You inhaled a slow and thin breath. “And we did them anyway.”

John’s hands curled into fists. “We did what we had to. We—”

“And now…” you interrupted whatever sorry excuse he had, “you killed a man in Lemar’s name.”

The silence in between made John wish you had screamed at the top of your lungs instead.

“We are not executioners, John,” you continued. “We never should have been.”

John tapped his feet on the ground anxiously as if he could outrun the words. “You know why I did it. You know—”

“You killed the wrong man,” you said. “And even if you hadn’t, Lemar wouldn’t have wanted that.”

His breath caught.

“Some leader you are,” you said, still calm. “John, I followed you to the ends of the Earth and look where it led me.” Your looked down at your feet. “Look where it led Lemar.”

John staggered back a step. He was still waiting for your anger. He was still waiting for your screaming, for you to hit him, for you to break, because if you broke, then at least he could hold the pieces and say he was sorry.

He whispered your name like a plea. “Please… don’t do this. Don’t shut me out. Don’t—”

“I’m not shutting you out,” you said. “I just don’t have anything left to give.”

John let out a shaky breath, shoulders sinking. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I want you to leave.”

He stood there for another moment, as if waiting for a second chance, a change of heart, anything at all.

But you didn’t look away. And he understood.

John nodded once, stepping out into the hall.

You closed the door gently, and on the other side, you heard him murmur something you couldn’t quite make out. Maybe your name. Maybe Lemar’s.

It didn’t matter.

After that, you didn’t hear from John Walker again for a long, long time.

—

You didn’t go back to the life you’d known. You quit quietly enough that no one could argue or talk you out of it. You signed papers, requested your files to be cleared and accounts erased. And because you needed a new start, you moved out as soon as you were able to sign a lease.

The small apartment you settled for was in New York. The city felt anonymous, crowded, and brutally loud. It felt like somewhere you could disappear into the static of streetlights and taxi horns. The endless pulse of a city probably didn’t care who you were, or who you’d lost. Your new home was in the Lower East Side, a place with a brick facade and a rickety staircase, but it was yours.

You hadn’t expected anyone to show up to help or care. You had resigned yourself to stacking boxes alone, to carrying the weight of your own life from one address to another.

But as you pulled up to your new address in the moving truck you rented… you saw Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes on your doorstep.

Sam lifted a hand in a little wave. “Morning,” he said, like this wasn’t completely insane.

Bucky just gave a chin tilt, his arms crossed, looking like he’d been drafted against his will but didn’t really mind.

You jumped off the driver’s seat. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

Sam grinned like the answer was obvious. “Helping you move.”

“Why?”

Sam and Bucky exchanged a glance.

“We just wanted to check in,” Sam said in that annoyingly sincere voice he probably used with his therapy circle at the VA. “Y’know, we wanted to make sure you’re alright.

“Right,” you opened the back of the truck without even facing him.

Sam opened his mouth again probably to say something diplomatic, but all you could see was Captain America.

That's who he was now, right?

You couldn’t look at Sam without seeing the shield. Sure, the metal would have no blood on it now, but you’d seen it once drenched, dripping red, reflecting a world that had tilted sickeningly out of axis. The shield that had taken a life in Lemar’s name. The shield John had held. The shield Sam now carried.

A hundred guilt-ridden, heartbreaking thoughts popped to your head, but none of them made it past your mouth. You just couldn’t look at him.

So, you snapped instead. “Oh, what—you think I need babysitting? You feel guilty or something?”

Sam sighed, not even defending himself. He just stood still, the smallest frown on his lips like you’d reached in and scraped nails down something tender inside him. “I'm not here out of guilt,” he said sternly. “I’m here because—”

“Save it.” You cut him off with a shake of your head. “I don’t want a lecture. I don’t want you.”

Sam swallowed hard. You knew it hurt him. After all, your words rarely landed softly.

But he respected your wishes, even when you were tearing at him like a wounded animal. “I…,” he started, “I’ll go.”

And he did. He turned, heading back toward the street without another word.

Bucky watched him leave, before coming back to you.

And you didn’t, couldn’t, say the same words to him as you did to Sam, not when he had sat next to you as you knelt over Lemar’s body, shaking and soaked in someone else’s blood. Not after he helped you lay Lemar on the floor. Not after he put a hand on your shoulder, because comfort wasn’t his language but he tried anyway, because he knew what it meant to lose someone who defined you.

You opened your mouth, maybe to apologise, maybe to ask him to leave, too, but Bucky cut you off with a grunt. “Don’t even think about kicking me out.”

Your head snapped up. “Bucky—”

He jerked his head toward the back of the moving truck. “Look at that thing.” There were boxes, furniture, and duffel bags stacked precariously.

“You need help with the heavy stuff,” he said, matter‑of-factly. “And let’s be real, you’d throw out your back before you asked for it.”

Despite your grief, your exhaustion, and your hollowed‑out insides, you almost laughed. Almost.

Bucky didn’t push, didn’t comfort you or tried to pry. He just grabbed the biggest box and said, “Lead the way.”

Your new apartment wasn’t much. I was just one of those small places in New York with hardwood floors, high ceilings, windows that let in a little too much light.

And the moment you walked in, Bucky stepped inside behind you, wiping his boots on the mat.

“I only live ten minutes down that way,” he said, nodding toward the street.

“How…” you started, “How did you even know I was moving here?”

Bucky shrugged, deadpan. “Like Sam said… we kept an eye on you.”

You snorted. “Stalker much.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolled his eyes. “Come on. Box goes where?”

There was no lecture, no pity in his voice.

And maybe that’s exactly what you needed.

—

The first couple of days in your new apartment was a blur.

After Bucky left that day, you didn’t unpack like you said you would. You didn’t even touch the boxes. You didn’t even step inside your bedroom unless you had to. The suitcases stood abandoned like a monument to your inertia, the few duffel bags left half-open as if they were still waiting for you to decide whether the world mattered enough to keep living in it.

You didn’t eat. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t answer calls, texts, or messages, not that you had that many people checking up on you. The walls of the apartment became a cage and a coffin at the same time, and silence around you grew so thick you could feel it pressing in on your skull.

After two days of no contact, you heard a knock on your door.

For reasons you didn’t even want to articulate, you unlocked the door, knowing only one person could possibly have the balls to do it.

As you expected, Bucky was there. His metal arm was crossed over his human one, his eyes scanning the apartment with the exact combination of judgment and patience. He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

It became evident to him that nothing had been touched. The boxes were stacked neatly, but unopened. The mattress was still rolled up in the corner. You hadn’t even plugged in the fridge in your kitchen.

“Deep shit, you are,” he said flatly, carrying a hint of humor that you almost hated him for.

“What are you?” you sneered, but closed the door behind him anyway, “Yoda?”

Bucky ignored you. “Look at this place. You’re going to collapse on the floor one day and never get up again if we don’t fix this.”

Oh well, you wanted to say, but bit your tongue.

He didn't wait for your reply anyway. He just grabbed your brand new, vacuumed, rolled up mattress, and dragged it into the bedroom. “You’re laying down. Now.” He sounded firm, but not cruel. There was no argument in it, no room for negotiation.

You didn’t resist.

After all, the exhaustion in your bones was heavier than pride in your heart. You even let him maneuver the mattress until it was flat enough to sleep on.

The second your head hit the mattress, sleep claimed you entirely.

—

You didn’t even know how long you slept, only that when you woke up and willed yourself to stumble back to the living room, something had changed.

The sun had set, so you must’ve been out for at least four hours. Some of the boxes were open, the furniture arranged. The place no longer felt like a storage unit with your name on it. Instead, it felt like a home someone had arranged against your will. On the stove, was a pot of mashed potatoes simmered next to thick, pale gravy.

The smell was absurdly domestic, incongruous with your grief.

You froze mid-step. “Where… did you even get that?”

Bucky leaned against the counter, arms crossed, the faintest hint of a smile on his face. “Brought some food from my place. Mashed potatoes and gravy is the only things I can make well. Got a 1940s taste palate, apparently.”

You stared at him for a while, then at the apartment itself. Everything he had touched, arranged, set in place was meticulously and carefully. Your books were arranged alphabetically on a now-assembled bookshelf, your shoes were stacked neatly by the door, the stupid polkadot umbrella you owned was hanging on the hook behind your door. And on the coffee table, framed among the little displays he had put together, was a photo.

It was a photo of you, John, and Lemar on the first day of boot camp. You were standing awkwardly in uniform, smiles plastered across your faces.

You all looked… alive.

You reached for the frame slowly, as if it might bite. And then you turned it face down.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said, watching him plate the food before handing it to you.

“I know,” he admitted. “But I also know what it feels like to lose everything.”

“I…” you breathed out, “I don’t know what to say.”

“A thank you would be nice,” he added sarcastically, almost teasing, almost human.

You stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged, feigning indifference. “Yeah, yeah,” you dismissed, scooping a forkful of mashed potatoes. “Whatever.” You didn’t look at him as you put it in your mouth, not wanting him to see the small, reluctant concession of defeat.

The potatoes were perfect.

You chewed slowly, swallowing the first bit of food you had in days. “You could have been a great 1940s househusband.”

Bucky scoffed, but didn’t push further. He just sat across from you, letting you eat, letting you breathe, letting the apartment become more than a tomb.

—

The next few weeks repeated into a strange kind of routine. You don’t remember ever agreeing to it, nor have you ever asked for it, but Bucky simply… created one around you.

He didn’t hover, though. He didn’t smother, nor did didn’t treat you like you were fragile glass that might shatter at the next strong wind.

He just showed up. And, you let him.

Some mornings he arrived with groceries, saying “you’re gonna starve if you keep forgetting to eat again.”

Some evenings he’d sit on your couch, boots kicked up on the coffee table like he owned the place, watching whatever mindless show you put on to keep the horrible thoughts away.

Sometimes he cooked, terribly. Sometimes you cooked, also terribly. There had been burnt eggs, over-salted pasta, a near kitchen fire, and still, you both ended up chuckling dryly at yourselves like neither of you didn’t quite remember how laughter worked.

Still, you didn’t talk about Lemar. Still, you didn’t talk about John. Even after he told you about his past to try to coax out yours.

Soon enough, Bucky became your only friend.

He always would nudge a glass of water toward you when your hands shook. He would wordlessly take the knife from your trembling fingers when chopping vegetables. Sometimes he’d just sit near you on the floor, leaning against the same wall, breathing slowly enough that you found yourself matching it without meaning to.

After all, there were nights the grief hit so hard you folded into yourself on the kitchen floor, gasping like you were drowning in your own ribs. And every time it happened during Bucky’s little visits, he didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t give advice, like Sam would, or get loud like John would. He didn’t touch you unless you reached for him first. He would just sit, knees drawn up, his shoulders close enough to yours, yet still not close enough to cage you.

Over time, you got better at pretending.

You even joined a gym.

Bucky didn’t really celebrate it. He didn’t say I’m proud of you or good job. He just raised an eyebrow when you told him and said, “Try not to get kicked out.”

You went every morning before sunrise, when the place was nearly empty. You started hitting the punching bag like it had killed Lemar. You punched until your shoulders ached. You punched until your arms trembled, until your knuckles split and bled through the wraps.

Bucky noticed— it was impossible not to.

One afternoon, he walked into your apartment as you were rinsing blood from your hands. You didn’t even flinch, since you gave him a key. You kept your eyes on the sink as rusted pink water swirled down the drain.

“You get into a fight with a brick wall?” he asked, leaning against the doorway with that dry tone he’d perfected over the weeks.

“Brick wall fought back,” you said.

“Ah.” He crossed his arms. “Did you win?”

You huffed half a humorless laugh, shocked he’d gotten even that out of you. “Depends on your definition of winning.”

Bucky just walked past you, into the kitchen, opening the fridge like a man who lived there, pulling out leftover mashed potatoes he’d made two days ago. He stuck them in the microwave without asking, without looking at you, without making it a thing.

Because he knew if he gave your pain too much space, you’d collapse beneath it.

If he treated it like it was normal, manageable, as if it was survivable… maybe you’d start to believe it was.

—

Before you knew it, reality caught up with you. This time, it came in the form of money.

Your savings began shrinking in small increments. The numbers ticked down every time you paid rent, every time an electric bill was auto-drafted, every time you opened the fridge and remembered you needed to go grocery shopping for milk. The rent wasn’t cheap, the utilities added up, and grief had a funny way of making you forget that the world kept spinning even when yours didn’t.

At first you ignored it. You told yourself you’d figure it out. You’d always been the “competent one” out of the trio, the one who could charm her way into anything, the extrovert who turned strangers into friends with nothing but a few well-placed jokes.

But that version of you felt like just another body added to the pile.

And now money was running out, and the world didn’t care that you were hurt. It never paused, never reached out a hand unless it was to take something else from you. Responsibilities kept coming, and you couldn’t hide from the fact that you needed a job.

But a job would involve people.

You could barely talk to the barista downstairs without feeling like your vocal cords were rusted from disuse. You, who used to hold whole rooms captive, couldn’t stand to be looked at anymore.

Besides, you had sold yourself to “serve your country”, whatever that meant. You had no civilian skills, nothing resembling a normal career path. Everything you’d ever been good at involved weapons or tactics or throwing a punch.

You thought about applying somewhere, anywhere, but each attempt ended with your chest tightening, hyperventilating. You’d have to shut the laptop and press the heels of your hands into your eyes until stars burst behind your eyelids.

So you went back to the only place you could breathe:

The gym. Where your punching bag lived. The punching bag that couldn’t talk back.

And it was during one of those nights—when your fists slamming again and again into the canvas, each impact ricocheting up your arms— that you noticed it.

A red flyer, lazily to the wall like an afterthought, corners curling from humidity. You would have ignored it on any other day, but something in the bold lettering caught your eye— or maybe it was the promise underneath it.

FIGHT NIGHTS — CASH NIGHTLY.

GOOD PAY. NO RULES.

ASK FOR JACE.

Your eyes stuck to it longer than it should have, a strange numbness sliding through your chest.

It wasn’t safe.

It wasn’t smart.

But it was something you knew how to do. You’d certainly find it familiar. All you had to do was survive and hit back.

The punching bag swung slowly in front of you, your last hit still rippling through it. Your fists throbbed, your knuckles split and bleeding under the wraps, and when you finally reached out and tore the flyer from the wall, the blood had dried. After showering, after taping your hands again, you approached Jace— the guy at the front desk.

He stood behind the counter, wiping down a set of dumbbells. When he saw you walking toward him with the flyer crumpled tightly in your hand, he didn’t look surprised.

He’d been expecting you.

“I want in,” you said without hesitation.

Jace eyed you, gaze moving from your bruised wrists to your wrapped knuckles to the stiffness in your shoulders.

“You sure?” he asked finally. His voice wasn’t mocking or skeptical. Rather, it was weary. It's as if he'd asked this question too many times to too many people who’d lost too much.

“Yeah.”

“You know what you’re asking for?”

“Yes.”

“It’s underground. No doctors. No one will save you if you get in over your head.”

“I know.”

He sighed and nodded once. “Fine. First fight’s next Friday. Nine p.m. Don’t bring friends.”

You almost laughed. “Don’t have any.”

That was a lie. You had one.

Jace passed you a small card with an address scribbled on it.

“You will after this,” he said. “Though I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

—

On Thursday night, the weather was miserable. Cold rain slapped against the windows like impatient fingers tapping at glass, and the whole building hummed with that metallic shiver old New York apartments got when the heating system was doing its best.

Bucky let himself in without waiting for you to answer, two grocery bags dangling from his human hand, the smell of something vaguely Italian trailing behind him.

He kicked your door closed with the heel of his boot and announced, “I’m making dinner. Don’t argue. The last thing I saw in your fridge was a questionable yogurt cup and a bottle of mustard.”

You rolled your eyes, collapsing onto the couch like your bones were filled with wet sand.

The comfort of him was dangerous, but you tried not to think about it.

Bucky put the bags on the counter. It had pasta, sauce (he never ever ever ever wanted to make his own again after what happened last time), and some overpriced artisan bread, because Bucky pretended he didn’t care about food but apparently did.

Before long, he was stirring the sauce. “Hey,” he started. “There’s a new pool bar opening down the street. Sam keeps talking my ear off about it. I was thinking…” He paused, spoon still in the pot. “I was thinking maybe we could check it out. Friday night. You know… if you want.”

Your heartbeat dropped into some dark pit in your stomach.

Of all the weeks, of all the days…

“No,” you said, like you were cutting the word from your own throat.

Bucky turned towards you. “Okay. Why?”

Fuck. What were you supposed to say?

Because if I go with you, I won’t make it to the fight. And if I don’t make it to the fight, I won’t make rent. And if I don’t make rent, everything falls apart. And I don’t know if I’d survive another thing falling apart.

But none of that came out.

“I…”

Bucky leaned against the dinner table just off the side, crossing his arms, giving you that annoying smirk he used as a pressure tactic. “You what? Got a secret date? Some fancy event? Do you moonlight as a magician on Fridays?”

He was teasing, trying to coax something real out of you, unaware of how close you were to shattering.

“Something like that,” you muttered into your sleeve.

“That’s not an answer,” he said, nudging your shin with his boot.

You lifted your head and gave him a flat look, an abyss of tiredness that had no bottom.“None of your business, Barnes.”

That wiped the smirk off his face. For a long moment, Bucky didn’t say anything. Then he nodded, “alright,” he said. “I’ll drop it.”

You watched him turn back to the stove. His shoulders were tenser than before.

You hated withdrawing from him, but you couldn’t possibly tell him that tomorrow night you’d be in a basement surrounded by screaming strangers, trading blows with someone twice your size because you needed the money, because you needed the pain to feel like something you could control, because life had taken so much that you had nothing left to lose except your own body.

—

On Friday, you went to a scribbled address to find a deceptively large basement by the docs.

It looked like a different world. It was hot, loud, pulsing with neon lights and sweat, and smelling of beer and blood. It was one of those places people came to lose themselves because the world had nothing left to offer, a place you’d once sworn you’d never go near.

Funny how promises rot faster than people.

The guy from the gym, Jace, guided you in with a hand on your shoulder, weaving through the crowd as if he’d been doing this since birth.

“Only two rules,” he said, raising his voice over the roar. “Tap out or get knocked out. Don’t try to be a hero. Heroes die broke.”

The deeper you went, the hotter the air became. The hallway buzzed under flickering industrial lights, the bulbs old enough that every flicker felt like they might give up and leave you in the dark.

When the corridor opened into the underground arena, the sound slammed into you, stacking on top of each other like a wave breaking over stone. A ring of lights framed the cage at the center of the room, the metal bars catching flashes of neon pink and electric blue that made the place feel like some hellish carnival.

People crowded the place shoulder to shoulder— sweating, shouting, holding plastic cups sloshing cheap liquor.

Jace placed a steady hand on your shoulder as he pulled you through the crowd

You noticed a row of VIP booths elevated above the rest of the mob, lined with bulletproof glass and flanked by security that looked ex-special service or worse. Inside, were men in tailored suits lounged behind the glass like bored gods watching a lower species fight to the death for their amusement. You recognised a couple of them there, including New York’s Mayor in a crisp white suit, sitting with two councilmen and a state senator whose faces you remembered from a press conference about “cleaning up the streets.”

Clean up the streets. Best way to do that was to fund the blood beneath them, right?

The sign-in table was a dented metal slab balding under stacks of paperwork. The woman behind it had tattoos creeping up her throat like vines strangling her skin. “New?” she asked.

You nodded.

“Alias?”

You hesitated, then gave her the truncated field name you hadn’t used since a dust-covered hellscape years ago.

She stamped your wrist with a red mark that burned faintly, then typed something into a tablet.

“Payout is seven percent if you win,” she said flatly. “Three if you lose.”

“That’s it?”

Someone behind you snorted.

“Yup.” She slid a clipboard toward you. “And the pot tonight is sitting at a hundred and thirty two thousand. And climbing”

A hundred.

And thirty-two.

Thousand.

You’d expected maybe a couple hundred bucks. Not enough for rent, maybe enough for groceries. But even if you lost, three percent of that much money could make your rent in one night’s work.

And if you won, you could pay every unpaid bill sitting unopened in your apartment.

Not that any amount of money could pry Lemar’s death out of your chest or undo John raising the shield like a butcher’s blade. Not that cash could undo the feeling of your own hands, clutching your best friend’s cooling body while your brother-in-arms lost his mind.

But money could keep the lights on. It could keep the landlord off your back. It could keep Bucky from worrying more than he already did.

“Fine,” you said. “Where do I go?”

“Locker room. Down the hall.”

—

The locker room felt sterile, metallic. Rusted showerheads drooped from tile walls, and the benches were bent enough to suggest someone had once been thrown across them.

You rolled your shoulders, cracked your knuckles, and began wrapping your hands.

The tape felt rough against your skin, digging into your calluses, biting into the places where your palms had split during training back in the service. Your reflection in the cracked mirror looked foreign.

The speaker overhead crackled with static, then your alias was called.

—

The cage door slammed shut behind you like the lid of a coffin.

Your opponent stood across from you. He was tall, thick-necked, and looked like he had broken more bones than he could count. He rolled his shoulders once as shouts rippled across the crowd’s attention. People leaned forward, hungry.

You looked him straight in the eye.

“First time here?” he asked. He didn’t sound like he was just mocking you, just curious. A veteran sizing up another.

“Yeah,” you said, tightening the last wrap of tape around your wrist. “You?”

“Second season.” His grin widened. “Don’t worry. The first fight’s always scary.”

“I’m not scared,” you said.

He huffed a small laugh. “Everyone’s scared in here. Doesn’t matter how tough you—”

“Military?” you interrupted, looking down familiar scars down his arm.

He paused, surprised. After a beat, he nodded. “Two tours with the Navy. You?”

“Quit the army a couple months ago,” you said, mouth curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Any achievements?” he asked.

“A Medal of Honor.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Shit. For what?”

“For doing something stupid enough I got promoted for it.” You shrugged, rolling your shoulders. “Anyway, that's nothing. Guy I used to work with got three.”

Talking about John made you sick, but you said it anyway.

The ref repeated the rules.

“Tap or get knocked out.”

Then, the bell rang.

He swung first. It was a fast, sharp hook meant to rattle your skull.

It connected.

Your jaw snapped to the side, your vision spiking white before the world steadied. You exhaled a shudder of relief.

There it is. A familiar pain.

He followed with a jab that slammed into your ribs, knocking air from your lungs. You staggered but didn’t fall, feeling blood dripping from your split lip.

You… laughed. “That all?”

He blinked, thrown off by the sound, shoulders rolling like you were finally waking up.

You moved an elbow up, sending a crack into his sternum, before driving a knee driving into his thigh. You followed up with a short hook against his ear that rattled him off balance.

He swung again, wilder this time, and you ducked beneath his arm, your breath hot against his shoulder.

“You hit like paperwork,” you whispered.

He barked a laugh, lending him one second of humor, before your fist buried itself into his gut. He folded, air exploding from his chest.

The crowd howled.

He went down on one knee, palm flattening against the mat.

“Tap out,” you warned.

He shook his head, teeth gritted.

You drove your shoulder into his chest, sending him sprawling. He grabbed your ankle, desperate, but you twisted free, pinning him with your knee on his sternum.

His hand smacked the mat.

Tap.

The bell shrieked overhead.

The ref grabbed your wrist, lifting it high as the crowd erupted. Your opponent wheezed beneath you before finally pushing himself upright, one hand clutching his ribs.

He looked at you, blood from his nose and respect in his eyes.

“What the hell were you over there?” he asked with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Dunno.” You wiped blood from your chin. “Just felt like it.”

—

Bucky showed up on Monday like he always did, with no warning, no text, no knock worth a damn.

When he saw you, he stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes flicked to your lip, split at the corner, swollen a dusky purple. Then to your arm, where a bruise bloomed like spilled ink beneath the skin.

“The hell happened to you?” he asked. He didn't sound angry. It was just that soft, Bucky’s version of worried, which somehow hurt more.

“It’s nothing,” you said.

He stepped inside anyway. He laid a metal hand on your shoulder, turning you gently but firmly toward the kitchen light. He lifted your chin with the back of two fingers, inspecting the damage up close, the way you imagined he’d once been trained to look for shrapnel wounds.

“‘Nothing,’” he repeated flatly. “Looks like you got hit with a baseball bat.”

You shrugged. “Walked into a door.”

Bucky stared at you, long enough that you had to look away.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said quietly.

You swallowed, but continued lying anyway. “It was a door.”

He exhaled through his nose, sounding displeased, but he didn’t push, didn’t corner you. Maybe he’d learned too much about what happens when you corner someone like you.

Instead, he moved past you, going straight for your freezer. He grabbed a bag of ice, wrapped it in a dish towel, and asked it carefully to your lip.

“You bruise easy now?” he muttered, eyes still narrowed.

“Guess so.”

“Bullshit,” he said, but the bite wasn’t there. He held the ice there until the sting dulled, until your shoulders loosened enough he knew you weren’t going to pull away. Then he set the ice on the counter and looked around.

And that’s when he noticed the cupboard door, slightly open, showing a lineup of groceries that hadn’t existed last week. There was a coffee maker you definitely hadn’t owned before, a couple new shelves. You had a new reading lamp, and an unwrapped stack of folded cotton towels.

“You went shopping?” he asked.

You shrugged again. “Figured I should.”

“That why you’re covered in bruises?” he asked, raising a brow. “Whole Foods parking lot get rowdy now?”

You fought the instinct to smirk, but didn’t quite win.“Maybe,” you said.

He rolled his eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

He walked toward the living room, metal fingers trailing the edge of the new table you’d assembled at 3 a.m., half delirious, hands shaking from adrenaline and fatigue. He tapped the corner of the new lamp. Opened your fridge again.

“Looks good,” he said finally. “The place. You’re really… spruced this place up over the weekend.”

You nodded.

He turned back to you, and sat on the couch. “Just because I’m giving you space,” he said, “doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention.” He leaned back. “And it doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Your throat tightened. “Yeah,” you managed. “I know.”

He didn’t believe that, but he didn’t correct you, either.

Instead, he picked up the ice again, gently pressing it back to your lip.

“So,” he said. “Door, huh?”

“Big door,” you gave a small chuckle.

“Mm,” he said. “Must’ve been.”

—

The next time you signed up to fighting, your opponent was already in the cage.

He was bigger than the last guy. Still, he was lean in the way people get when their survival depends on speed, but broad enough that his punches would crack bone if he felt like it. His skin was mapped with old scars, the kind you earn rather than inherit.

He looked you up and down. “You’re the new one, right?” he asked, stepping closer until you could smell the smoke on his breath. “The one who doesn’t block.”

You popped your new mouthguard in and gave him a smile that wasn’t a smile. “Blocking’s overrated.”

He chuckled. “Or you’re suicidal.”

“Maybe.”

His grin widened. “Name’s Cal.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

The bell rang.

—

He punched first, and you didn't even attempt to dodge or brace.

His first punch slammed into your ribs so hard your vision stuttered.

Perfect.

Your world lit up in white agony, foreign and familiar all at once. Your breath left your lungs, but you didn’t care. You wanted it to hurt. You needed it to hurt. You needed the pain to fill up the hollow places inside your skull.

He struck again, first your jaw, cheekbone, ribs,and you absorbed it all like a sponge,, your nerves on fire until the flames ran out of oxygen and collapsed into cold numbness.

A blissful nothing.

You grinned as blood dripped down your chin.

Cal hesitated, just shy of a heartbeat, but it was enough for you to launch.

The crowd howled as you collided with him, your fists slamming into anything soft enough to give, anything solid enough to bruise. You felt like a feeding frenzier piranha tearing into poisonous meat with no concern for what it did to your own body.

He grappled you, shoved you against the cage; your head cracked against steel, a ringing burst of stars exploding across your eyes.

“You’re slow,” you spat blood onto the floor.

He swung, you ducked, you surged forward and caught him with an uppercut that snapped his jaw back.

He staggered. You pressed harder.

Harder.

At this point, both you and Cal were dripping sweat, both of you gasping, both of you bleeding and shaking and running on the last threads of adrenaline.

You both hit the mat, grappling like animals in the dirt, breath intermingling, fingers slipping in blood. yours, his, you couldn’t tell.

He hooked your arm.

You twisted.

You hooked his.

Cal struggled beneath your weight, your elbow locked your arm around his neck, your body shaking with exertion.

Then, he tapped the mat three times. “I’m done—fuck—let go—”

You released him, rolling onto your back.

When the announcer lifted your arm, you barely registered it.

All you felt was the ringing hum inside your head, the hum that meant you were alive, even if living felt like the most reckless thing you’d ever done.

Cal sat up beside you, wincing as he wiped blood off his chin.

He looked at you.

He stared at you for a long moment, then snorted a laugh, shaking his head. “You want a drink later this week? Off the clock?”

You didn't know why you said, “sure.”

—

Bucky showed up the next day.

You didn’t hear him at first. You were too preoccupied in the bathroom, staring at the bruises that painted your ribs in sickly yellow and deep violet, the newest ones still fresh and angry across your neck. You were pressing a cold rag to them when you heard the door open.

You debated locking the bathroom and pretending you weren’t home. You debated climbing out the window.

Instead, you opened the door.

He took one look at you, at your split lip reopening, a fresh scrape across your eyebrow, and his posture changed.

“What happened?” he asked. It was the same question as last time, the same attempt at being gentle.

“Gym,” you lied.

“You sparring with trucks?”

“Sure.”

He nudged you toward the couch. He reached into your freezer again and pulled out one of the ice packs he’d brought over on his last visit.

He pressed it to your cheek. You hissed, but he didn’t let go.

“You’re gonna run out of excuses eventually,” he murmured.

“No,” you said, leaning back, exhausted. “I’ll just get more creative.”

He didn’t laugh. He just held the ice there, his human hand steady on your shoulder, his eyes full of a concern he tried so damn hard to hide.

When he finally let go, he looked around the apartment again, to see more food, more furniture, despite the life draining from your eyes.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

“Something like that.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, but closed it again.

He left it alone.

He left you alone.

For now.

—

Two days later, he was walking home from dinner with Sam when he passed the pool bar, the new one he’d asked you about. The one you said “no” to.

He didn't intend to look inside.

He just… did.

And through the large windows, he saw you, and you weren’t alone.

You were sitting at one of the high tables, leaning back in your chair, and letting out a small laugh. Across from you, was a guy with battered knuckles. You had matching bruises, though neither of you seemed bothered by it.

Bucky stopped walking.

Oh.

He had just bought a bouquet for you, since he was heading to your apartment. It was nothing fancy, just a handful of wildflowers he’d grabbed from a florist because they reminded him of your smile.

He looked down at them, then up at you.

The guy you were with leaned forward, saying something that made you shake your head. He said something else, and you smirked. It wasn’t warm, but it was… something. Bucky stood there on the sidewalk, flowers hanging useless in his grip.

He didn’t storm in or interrupt. He didn’t knock on the window or call your name.

He looked down at the bouquet again, turned, and walked away.

Eventually, he left the flowers on top of the trash can by the corner.

—

Inside, the bar smelled like chlorine and stale IPA, an odd combination that should’ve been unpleasant but somehow felt comforting, the way a dying motel neon buzzing was comforting.

Cal was sitting next to you, the wood creaking under his weight. His nose looked freshly reset, eyes still bruised from the fight he lost to you. He grinned anyway, and you hated how familiar it felt.

He reminded you of Lemar in the way he carried conversations easily, like he’d never once questioned whether people wanted him around. And he reminded you of John in the way unhinged simmered right behind his teeth. As if he was restless and volatile, a spark waiting for gasoline.

You’d said yes to his invitation because that combination hurt. And you needed hurt.

Because if you were going to drown, you’d rather do it with someone who’d already tied their own weights on. Someone you couldn’t ruin any further. You didn’t want to pull Bucky into your undertow.

He laughed at a self-deprecating joke you made. “You’re real fun, you know that?”

You shrugged. You didn’t feel fun. You felt like a ghost trying to animate a corpse. But Cal was the same. He talked like a man dragging his own coffin around, making jokes to keep from tripping over it.

He asked about your training. You told him. He asked if you always enjoyed pain that much. You didn’t answer.

Before you knew it, hours passed. You weren’t sure why you talked about what you talked about— violent stories, his dead wife and the struggles of being a single dad to a six-year-old, and you even mentioned your tours with John and Lemar without ever mentioning them by name. He was a car crash in slow motion. You were standing in the middle of the road.

At the end of the night, stumbling out into cool air that smelled like wet concrete, he reached for you.

His hand slid onto your face, thumb brushing the fading bruise Bucky had noticed days before. He just leaned in, and… kissed you.

It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t rough. It was a moment of pressure and heat that felt more like a dare than affection.

Your body froze before your brain caught up. After a suspended second, you stepped back, breath catching in your throat.

“I…” Your voice cracked, embarrassingly soft. “No. I—no.”

Cal blinked at you, drunk confusion twisting his features. “You seeing somebody else?”

“No,” you said. “Not really. Not—no.”

“Huh.” he looked down.

“I just…” You looked away. “I don’t feel like that. Thought this was a… friend thing, you know?”

You expected him to get angry. Men like him usually did.

Cal just let his hand fall, nodding once. “Yeah. I… yeah, I get it.”

He wasn’t hurt, because he recognised that you were just two people with empty chests staring at each other, realizing neither had enough heart left for two.

He stepped back, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “No hard feelings. Still wanna grab a drink sometime. Just drinks.” He lifted his chin up. “You’re good company, even when you’re sad as hell.”

You huffed something like a laugh.

He walked you to your building without trying to touch you again. You weren’t sure if it comforted you or unsettled you that someone else was just as hollow.

—

The next time Bucky came by, he tried to act normal.

You noticed something off the second he stepped through your door. His smile was a little too even, like he was trying to convince both of you that everything was fine. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his jacket, and he was breathing a little too loudly.

You raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

For a split second, his mask cracked. You saw a flicker under his carefully controlled exterior. Was it Anger? Concern?

“Yeah. Fine,” he said, quick and clipped, like deleting a message you weren’t supposed to see.

Dinner was quiet at first. You cooked, halfheartedly. He watched, arms folded, occasionally sipping from his glass of water. He looked… smaller than usual, like trying to occupy less space in case the world decided to shove him.

When you finally set the plates down, he let slip, almost by accident, “I saw you the other night… with a guy.” His voice was neutral, but the way his eyes flicked to you for your reaction betrayed him. He knew, on some level, that you could do whatever the hell you wanted. That didn’t stop the little stab of jealousy that he felt.

“You did?”

“Was it… a date?” he asked carefully, trying to sound unconcerned.

You snorted, a little amused. “What if it is?”

He shrugged stiffly. “It’s fine.”

You shook your head, leaning back in your chair. “No. I don’t see him like that.”

“Then how do you know him?” His voice was calmer now, but the question was suspicious in the way Bucky always was.

“Coworker,” you said immediately.

He raised an eyebrow. “Where the fuck do you work?”

You grinned faintly, the kind of sarcastic look he knew too well. “I’m a crash test dummy at the door factory,” you said, calling back the joke you made a couple of weeks ago about running into one.

Bucky stared at you for a second, clearly unimpressed. “Not funny.” But then a little chuckle escaped him. He shook his head and muttered something under his breath, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to look too happy that it’s wasn’t a date.

—

Weeks bled into months, each one folding into the next like bruised pages in a book no one wanted to read. You were making friends in the fights now. It was not that many, but enough to feel camaraderie that didn’t come with interrogations. Cal invited you to drink with some of the others, and eventually, names stuck to faces, faces stuck to injuries, and you could tell each other, I get it.

You’ve gotten a name for yourself in the ring, and perhaps you had become undefeated because you did not give a fuck if you died trying. Every fight, every tap-out, every close call fed a part of you that you didn’t know even existed.

Still, it was a secret to Bucky, even when saw you often. He stood in your doorway just long enough for you to sense him, just long enough for you to notice the way his teeth tightened whenever you came back bruised or tired, or when you laughed too hard or too little.

Little by little, you started being… affectionate with him. Not openly, nor obviously. But you started resting your hand near his on the counter when he handed you coffee, your shoulder brushed his as you passed, giving little touches on his arm that lingered just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

He noticed. To your surprise, he started responding. He’d bring you flowers, leaving them casually on the counter, wild ones you didn’t ask for.

One evening, after doing a whole lot of nothing, you sat in the corner of your apartment crying.

It was the first time you had actively asked Bucky to come over.

He arrive seven minutes later, he didn’t ask anything. He sat down beside you and let you lean into him, one arm around your shoulders, and you didn’t try to fight it. You just let yourself lean into him like you used to with Lemar’s shoulder, like you used to with John before everything went to hell. But this… it felt different with him. It felt more vulnerable with him.

Another time, you couldn’t get out of bed. Your body ached with bruises, and even swallowing made your ribs scream. Bucky didn’t ask. He came in and did your dishes, because moving your arms hurt like hell.

That day, he helped you to the bath, metal and human hands steadying you as you undressed. You’d complain, but you didn't have the energy to.

As he helped pull your shirt over your arms, he saw the bruises. They were a mix of deep purples, fading yellows, dark reds that outlined your ribs, breasts, and shoulders and arms. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he tilted his head, lips sadly taking shape into that half-smile, half-grimace you’d grown to love.

“Door factory jobs must be rough,” he said, teasing, but you could tell he was worried.

You couldn’t help the laugh that came out.

He helped you climb into the bath he prepared. “You don’t have to do… whatever it is you do alone. I’m right here.”

You just stay there in the puddle, water running over the bruises, over your hair, over the places you hadn’t wanted anyone to see but him and whispered, “Hmm.”

Bucky had his suspicions— maybe you were training people at the gym, maybe it was private security. But no, you never intended to tell him the extent of it.

—

Tonight had started like every other night at work.

“Clocking in?” Jace asked.

“Yeah,” you said, chewing your gum. You passed through the locker room, exchanging half-smiles with familiar faces, hearing the rhythmic slap of gloves on bags, the the bass in the arena floor, the faint metallic tang of sweat in the air.

Everything felt almost normal. You greeted other fighters, nodded at the bartender, even managed a small laugh when someone joked about surviving the last fight without losing teeth.

Everything was alright up until you made your way to the cage.

Until you saw him.

What the fuck was he doing here?

Sam Wilson.

He was standing near the back, his shield strapped across his back. His Captain America uniform looked like it glowed under the harsh neon lights, and you knew the exact second he noticed you were there, too.

Suddenly, as you got locked in the cage, the world narrowed. Your vision pinched itself down into a tunnel centered on the red, white, and blue star that had haunted your nightmares for weeks.

That shield.

That fucking shield.

The shield who was and still is a beacon of hope for many… was something entirely different to you.

It was the shield that John had carried when he took a life in exchange for Lemar. And now, it was on Sam’s back, and suddenly air didn’t reach your lungs the way it should.

All you saw was Lemar’s body. All you saw was John executioning an surrendering man.

You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t.

Your heartbeat kicked in like a jackhammer. The sound of the crowd, the roar, the laughter, the clinking glasses, the shouted bets, all faded to white noise, leaving only your own panicked heartbeat, the metallic taste of adrenaline on your tongue, the molten ache in your chest.

You had to fight.

You couldn’t break down here, not now.

You glanced at Cal across the ring, bouncing lightly on his heels, a cocky grin stretched across his face. “I’m gonna win this time,” he said, teasing.

But instead of seeing him, your brain decided to play a trick on you and just showed you a Flag Smasher.

The bell rang.

You moved.

And from the first second, you were no longer just yourself. You were fury made flesh. Each step, each punch, each pivot felt like it had been pure instinct and desperation. Cal’s ribs groaned under the impact of your fists, his forearm splintered under your elbows, but you didn’t pause. Pain didn’t exist. Fatigue didn’t exist. The world had dissolved into a blur of neon light and sweat-slick skin and the taste of blood already collecting at the corner of your mouth.

He tried to reach the ground to tap, but you couldn’t stop.

All you could see was a faceless man and a shield that triggered your fighting instinct. You were in a feeding frenzy, knuckles raw, arms trembling, lungs burning, heart hammering like it wanted to escape. You were rage incarnate. Every strike screamed I exist, I exist, I exist.

Then…

After a quick one-two on his face…. his body collapsed.

He looked limp.

What?

“Cal?”

The world shifted around you as the announcer blared over the speaker— “Knockout!”

The roar of the crowd came crashing back into your ears. You froze, chest heaving, staring down at him. Black streaks danced at the edges of your vision.

You had done it. You had gone too far. You had knocked him out.

Did you… did you kill him?

Oh no.

You dropped to your knees, holding his face. “Cal,” you tried to tap his face awake, like John did to Lemar, “Cal. C'mon, Buddy.” You shook him, shaking harder, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. He’s got a life. He's got a daughter who depended on him. “Cal. Cal!”

The ref’s hands were on your shoulders before you even realised, lifting your hand up to declare victory.

You gasped, chest heaving, before you remembered where you were.

Someone came in the ring and said something you didn't hear, before repeat-ting it louder. “He’s alive. He’s going to be fine.”

Relief washed over you and it nearly buckled your knees.

He was… alive. Your friend, Cal, was alive. You didn’t kill him.

And then… your eyes met Sam. He looked annoyingly, impossibly calm. And the panic returned.

The shield. That shield. Lemar. John. The guilt. The fury.

Your stomach recoiled. You wanted to run. You wanted to dissolve into the floor. You wanted to hide in the wash of adrenaline and blood and sweat that had temporarily made you feel alive. And for the first time, you realized that no amount of victory, no amount of frenzy or punching or bleeding or winning, would ever be enough.

—

You stumbled out of the arena into the cold night, sweat still cooling on your skin, knuckles throbbing. You hunched your shoulders, trying to make yourself smaller, trying to ignore the way your entire body still vibrated with adrenaline.

“You look… good in there.”

The voice cut through the haze like a bell.

Sam.

Of course he followed you outside.

You froze mid-step, head snapping toward him. He was standing casually against the brick wall of the alley, shield slung across his back, hands in his pockets. The uniform made him impossible to ignore, made you want to disappear entirely.

You opened your mouth, tried to brush him off, but nothing came out right. “Yeah… thanks,” you said finally.

Of course, he remembered you in the fight with the Flag Smashers, remembered how you’d kept up. He knew you were good.

“What are you doing here?” you asked

“I’m investigating a senator,” he said, shrugging. "He was seen here last week. Figure I’d see if there was anything else worth noting.”

An air of silence settled awkwardly between you. You wiped your fist on your shorts and didn’t answer.

Then, quietly, he asked, “Does Bucky know?”

“No,” you said flatly.

“Ah,” he said, as if he already knew the answer. His eyes softened just a fraction. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell him.”

You let that hang there, staring into the darkness, feeling the sting behind your eyes. “Appreciate it,” you repeated.

Sam sighed, sounding almost patient. “Look. You might not want my help, but I’m always here if you want to talk to somebody.”

You shook your head saying, “Whatever, man,” and turned slightly, pretending to tie your straps tighter, trying to close the conversation.

He didn’t push, but added. “I know you two have gotten close. Go Bucky tonight if you need to. Don’t spend tonight alone, okay? Not after what happened in there.”

Just like that, he left you alone to settle in the cold night air.

—

You stumbled through the streets, every step dragging, muscles trembling with adrenaline that had nowhere to go. Your fists hung limp at your sides, fingers still raw from the fight, from the punches you had thrown just to feel something other than the gnawing guilt. The city blurred around you, signs flickering against darkened windows, and all you could think about was Cal, unconscious in the ring, your hands shaking over his chest, the thought that you might have killed him.

When you finally made it to your apartment, you collapsed against the doorframe, braced yourself, and stripped off your fight gear. You shoved yourself into the shower, letting the hot water pound down on you. You scrubbed roughly, letting the water carry the blood down the drain, but the memory didn’t follow. It clung, sticky and sharp, inside your mind.

You dried off mechanically, wrapped a towel around you, and picked up your notebook. Bucky’s address was still there. He had given it to you, months ago, and you hadn’t gone.

But tonight, you decided to take Sam’s advice.

Because tonight, the punching, the blood, the fight, it hadn’t given you the rush anymore. It hadn’t fixed anything. It hadn’t made the guilt smaller. The fear that you could hurt your friend, that you almost did, followed you like a shadow. You needed something else, someone else, to feel.

By the time you reached Bucky’s door, your legs felt like cooked spaghetti. You raised your hand, hesitated, then knocked. When the door swung open, he was there, and his eyes immediately tracked the blood and fresh bruising on your face and arms.

He didn’t say anything at first.

You… hadn’t meant to do what you did next. But you were numb to the bone, and when you saw him, you saw the world.

And you simply needed to feel him.

You didn't even think.

You pressed your lips to his, and it was rough, hungry, and desperate. The world shrank down to you and him and for a heartbeat, you thought… you think… that maybe he might pull away, maybe he’d finally reject you after all this time.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he kissed you back.

He shifted closer, his hands coming up to frame your face, tilting your head gently. His lips moved against yours with intent, letting you lean into him, pressing the heat of his body against yours. His chest met yours, and your hands dug into his shoulders instinctively.

You whispered breathlessly against his lips “I want you.”

He responded in kind. Not with words, but with pressure. His hands traced your jawline, slid into your hair, pulling you closer. His body curved around yours, and the tension between you crackled, like static.

Every nerve ending in your body lit up, every muscle tensed and then relaxed as he held you. The need was there but there was also restraint, a slow burn that made your heart beat in delicious agony.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, forehead resting against his. You could feel the tension coiling in him too, the restraint in his movements.

And then, after kissing the cut on your forehead gently, he trailed down and kissed your lips again, gentler this time, letting the tension build and linger, letting you feel it in every inch of your body.

He pulled you in closer, shutting the door behind him. Months of restraint, months of unspoken words and half-touching glances, months of grief and rage and adrenaline and survival, all coiled up inside you, and now it unspooled all at once.

Your hands fumbled, sliding under the hem of his shirt, feeling the warmth of skin and the plane of muscle beneath. He caught your wrists, guiding them, encouraging the exploration, pressing his body more firmly into yours. His metal hand found the small of your back, pulling you impossibly close, while the other, feeling the skin by your waistband, sent a shock of heat into your core.

Your lips moved against his again, tasting, claiming. You could feel him respond in every fiber of his body, every heartbeat echoing in yours, every sigh synchronized.

The air between you became humid with your combined heat, your breath mingling. Your hands roamed over him, tracing scars, tracing the texture of his vibranium arm.

You whispered against him, trembling, “I need you.”

And he whispered back, a growl of a sound that made your knees threaten to buckle. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You pressed yourself to him like you were trying to merge into his skin, like if you could just fuse with him, you might stop shaking, stop thinking, stop feeling the hollow ache of the fight. His hands roamed your sides. You needed more, and he sensed it. He guided you carefully toward his bedroom, one hand at the small of your back, the other tangling in your hair, tilting your head, peppering kisses all across the sensitive spots on your neck.

Gently laying you on the bed, he lifted your shirt up over your head. But as he admired his eyes flicked down and then back up at your bruises. They were fresh and angry, and much worse than it was when he last saw your body.

“What…” he kissed the dark spots on your body, hoping he could take the pain away, “What happened?”

“Bucky… don’t…” you gasped, pressing your palms to his chest. “Look at me. Look at me. I’m fine.”

“You’re hurt,” he said, worried.

You laughed, a short, breathless laugh and kissed him again. “I’m not,” you said, chest rising and falling, still pressing against him. “I’m not hurt. I’m not—” You trailed off, biting your lip. “I’m not.”

His hands moved faster now, almost possessively, skimming under your pants, tracing bruises, brushing over the sensitive spots you didn’t even realize were tender until he touched them.

You tugged at his shirt, tugged at the hem of his pants, urgently trying to feel every inch of him against you.

Your bruises stung under his touch, but you didn’t care. His hand brushed over the cut on your temple again, and you gasped. “Don’t,” you warned, almost pleading. “Don’t… don’t make me think about anything else.”

His lips pressed to yours again, like he was telling you he got it. He got you.

When you finally pulled back slightly, just enough to catch your breath, your foreheads pressed together and skin to skin, you realized that you hadn’t been this alive in a long long time.

You braced yourself on his shoulder and licked the shell of his ears, “You’re mine tonight.”

He laughed, tracing his fingers down your sternum, “Yeah… I think I’m yours too.” For hours, you stayed entwined, tangled, and consumed by each other.

Finally, finally, both of you found release in each other. When you collapsed together, limbs draped over one another, he held you close, fingers tracing absent patterns along your back, your temple pressed into his chest.

—

The next morning, sunlight filtered weakly through the blinds, dust mites drifting in the air. You woke to the ache of sore muscles. For a moment, panic crept in… you’d thought you were alone, but then you remembered you were not even in your apartment.

You were at Bucky's apartment, though he wasn’t sleeping beside you anymore.

You shifted out of the bed, and noticed your body hadn’t hurt as much.

Bucky had been tending to you while you slept. You were bandaged in places, and there were cool bits of ointment along your skin.

You got up, put on one of his clean henleys, and found him on his couch in the living room, still in the loose T-shirt he’d fallen asleep in, a coffee mug in his hand. When he noticed you, he smiled sheepishly. “You’re up.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice hoarse. “Looks like you… did some work on me.”

He shrugged casually. “Couldn’t let you walk around like that.”

Without thinking, you leaned down, pressing your lips to his temple in a lingering kiss. He hummed, eyes closing briefly at the touch, and pressed a hand to the small of your back.

You sat on the edge of his couch. The heat of last night still lingered in your skin, in the memory of him pressed against you, of his hands on your body, of the way he’d let you come undone in his bed.

He watched you patiently.

“Is it okay?” you finally asked, “If… nothing changes?”

He tilted his head, the hint of a sad smile tugging at his lips. He’d been holding back, holding you at arm’s length for months. He knew he couldn’t push you into a rigid relationship you didn’t want, but neither can he hide his disappointment. So he reached out, tracing your features with the pad of his thumb. “It’s okay,” he reassured. “I can be whatever you want me to be.”

You looked at him, searching his face. “You’re sure?”

“Hey,” he said softly, brushing your hair behind your ear, “Whatever you can give, however you can give it, it’s enough.”

You let your head fall against his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around you, thumb tracing lazy circles on your arm.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay,” he echoed, resting his cheek against your hair.

—

Things changed.

And… didn’t.

The next couple of weeks were strange, like you were walking underwater and everyone else was on land.

You and Bucky still circled each other the same way, but now there were nights you ended up in his bed or he in yours, and mornings where he made coffee while you sat on his counter in one of his shirts, pretending it didn’t mean anything.

Pretending it meant everything.

He didn’t say the word I love you, because that was a line you had drawn. But he kissed your forehead every time he saw you, and you let him. You’d lean into him without thinking. You found you liked falling asleep against him, and eventually, he printed photos of the two of you and put them up above the mantle of his fireplace, right next to a photo of him, Sam, and Joaquin, at one of the Wilson’s family cookouts.

But the fights… your job, changed.

You still showed up, still clock in, still nodded at Jace, still talked to Cal and his buddies (who never blamed you for what happened), but the moment you stepped into the cage, something inside you froze. You couldn’t explain it. You’d see Cal’s face, or the way Sam looked at you, or the moment you thought you’d killed your friend, and your hands would freeze.

You threw punches, but they were hesitant, soft around the edges. You could hit, God, your still body remembered how, but your mind pulled your hand back at the last second, afraid of that terrifying moment where someone didn’t get up.

So you stopped trying to win.

In true Achilles fashion, your opponent hit land, absorbing each blow like a punishment you’d earned. You went from undefeated to losing more than winning. Getting knockout after knockout, lights-out after lights-out. You’d wake up in the back room with someone snapping fingers near your face, and you’d mumble that you were fine, you were fine, you were fine.

You cried sometimes, still— that hadn't changed. In stairwells. In the shower. At the corner store staring at rows of cereal. The grief would come in unpredictable spikes, remembering Cal, Lemar, John, the shield, the guilt, the shame. It all pressed down on you until you had to sit on the floor just to breathe.

And then, once you were done, you’d check your phone to see a message from Bucky.

You home?

Bucky always showed up like the universe had put a tracking chip in your sadness.

Sometimes he brought food. Sometimes flowers. Once, when you couldn’t get out of bed, he sat beside you and rubbed your back until you stopped shaking.

Your bruises multiplied. They were blooming, finger-shaped, fist-shaped, dark purple shadows that wrapped around your ribs and throat and hips. You’d catch Bucky staring sometimes, confused and angry in equal measure.

“Door factory’s rough this month,” he’d mutter, trying to sound amused. You’d laugh because he wanted you to.

—

This Friday was just another Friday at work.

You told yourself you needed the cash, you still needed the noise in your skull drowned out, needed the ache of impact to chase away the demons.

Jace clapped you on the back. “Big crowd tonight.”

You wrapped your hands alone, knuckles still tender from the last beating you let someone hand you.

And then, on the way to the ring you saw the familiar red, white, and blue shield casually over someone’s back like it wasn’t a gravestone.

Sam Wilson stood across the room, dressed in full uniform as he leaned in to speak to some suit, no doubt the senator he was tailing, or someone who knew him. He was probably here for the investigation.

But when he looked up, his eyes found you instantly.

He nodded a quick hi to you, but you tore your gaze away quickly.

He was just getting another lead. He wasn’t here for you.

So you just ignored him and climbed in the cage.

The lights scorched down on you. Your opponent bounced on his feet. This was a new guy. He was young and eager. You almost didn’t pity him.

He smiled at you, perhaps excited. You tried to smile back but your body already felt wrong, like your limbs were filled with water instead of blood.

So you pulled your hands up, waited for the bell, and told yourself you could do this.

The bell rang.

He came in fast.

You threw a jab. It landed—barely. Soon enough, your arms didn’t want to lift again.

Then he hit you.

A clean, precise cross to the cheek that rattled your skull. Then another. Then a hook that made your vision flash white.

You staggered, but didn’t cover.

The crowd roared.

You heard someone shout your name. Maybe Jace. Maybe Cal. Maybe Sam. Maybe someone in the front row who bet on you winning.

He hit you again. And again. And again.

Your head snapped back, knees buckling, tasting blood in your mouth. Still, you refused to tap out because you thought this was all you deserved.

But that familiar numbness, the one you used to chase, didn’t come this time. Only that sinking, choking thought…

What if he doesn’t stop? What if I don’t get up this time?

The new guy wound up again.

You saw the punch coming, and you didn't even try to stop it.

The hit detonated against your cheek and your legs gave way, collapsing under you like cut wires.

The roar of the crowd dissolved into static.

You caught a glimpse of Sam as you head lolled to the side, forcing his way forward.

But the world was already closing in on you.

Your last thought before the blackout was stupid and childish.

If he tells Bucky, he's going to be so pissed.

—

You came back to consciousness like rising through deep water. A dull throb pulsed behind your right temple. The air smelled like antiseptic and old wood as a single bulb flickered overhead.

And someone was humming a Marvin Gaye song.

You tried to move, and felt a cold pack pressed to the side of your head.

Sam Wilson sat beside you, sleeves rolled up, eyes fixed on your face like he was making sure you were still here. “Welcome back.”

You looked sideways and found him perched on an upturned crate, elbows on his knees, holding the ice pack gently against your head.

You flinched away weakly. He pressed the ice back anyway.

You groaned and tried to sit up. He pressed a gentle hand to your shoulder. “You took a hard hit. I’ve seen soldiers with bullet wounds look better.”

Your eyes adjusted. You were in the warehouse’s back room, an emergency cot pulled out.

“What happened back there?” he asked, like he was asking for a secret. “You looked like you forgot how to fight.”

You swallowed. Your throat burned, but said nothing.

“And that doesn’t seem like something you’d forget how to do,” He added.

“Why does it matter?” you snapped. You didn’t look at him. “Why the fuck does it matter to you—or me—if I died in there?” Your voice cracked at the end.

Sam let out a deep breath. “It would matter to Bucky.”

Right.

You winced.

Sam tapped the melting ice pack gently against your temple. “I’ve seen a lot of hurt people. Enough to know when someone’s trying to kill themselves without technically killing themselves.”

Your lip trembled before you dug your nails into your palms.

“When you went down tonight…” Sam started, “For a second I thought you weren’t getting back up. And I saw the look on that guy’s face. He wasn’t trying to kill you. But you didn’t care if he did, right?”

You didn’t answer, because what could you say? You were tired, so goddamn tired.

And he was right. There had been a flash where you had genuinely thought, If this is it, then fine.

Sam sighed and rested his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor. “You’re not Achilles,” he reassured. “You’re not doomed. You don’t have to go out in some blaze of glory just because you’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve anything else.”

Heat pricked behind your eyes. You bit your tongue to stop anything from slipping out.

“There are people who love you,” Sam said, more firmly now. “Might not be many. But enough. One, for sure.”

Your throat tightened.

“Don’t do this to him,” Sam said.

You looked down at your hands. Finally, you muttered, “Whatever, man.” You didn’t want his lecture, didn’t want anyone to tell you you were too far gone or too reckless. You didn’t want to feel accountable.

Sam didn’t take the bait. He didn’t get mad, and didn’t leave. “You scared me,” he said quietly. “And if Bucky knew… well, you know how he gets.”

“Good,” you said, almost bitterly. “Glad I’m scary.”

“You’re better than what you’re doing to yourself,” he insisted. “And I know you don’t believe that right now. But borrow my belief until you do.”

You flinched. You wanted to argue, wanted to curl up and tell him he was wrong, but for the first time… you wanted to believe in him.

You swallowed hard. “And if I can’t?” you whispered.

Sam leaned closer. “Try anyway. You take one step at a time, yeah?”

Fuck.

“…I’m trying,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m trying, okay?”

Sam’s lips curved in an approving smile. “That’s a step,” he said. He stood, tugging gently at your shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you home before Bucky comes looking and tears this place down.”

A laugh slipped from your lips, and you let him guide you out. For once, you didn’t fight it. You didn’t resist. You let him help.

—

That night, Sam dropped you off at your building. You shuffled through the doorway and he followed just a few steps behind, like a shadow you didn’t mind.

You expected him to leave. You didn’t expect him to sit on your couch, to pour a drink, to ask how you were really doing.

You told him a little, carefully.

He listened like it mattered. You laughed a little at one point, and he smiled at the progress. After talking to him, it wasn’t hard to understand why he was Bucky’s closest friend.

By the time he left, you could probably, tentatively, cautiously, consider him your friend, too.

—

Bucky came over twice that week. You went to his place once.

Those nights that felt strangely gentle, with smooth vibranium fingers on your ribs. His human thumb brushed a bruise without speaking on it. You laid in his bed afterward, and you thought about telling him everything.

Fuck, you wanted him. Not just the skin‑to‑skin contact or the sex. You wanted the part of him that cared all to yourself. He wanted the part that loved you, apparently, if Sam’s words were to be believed.

So yes, you considered telling him about the fights. And the losing streak. And Sam hauling you out of your own graveyard of self‑destruction.

And honestly, fighting for as long as you did was lucrative enough that you could quit. You could down deposits, pay rent, eat for a year. You could stop letting people beat the shit out of you. You could stop chasing the punch that didn’t thrill you anymore. You could stop trying to die on the mat every weekend.

You could.

But you hadn’t told him.

You were scared he’d look at you differently, and perhaps scared he’d see what you saw in yourself.

—

Friday night came. And you had decided that day that you were going to fight again.

You were just grabbing your jacket, just about to head to The Basement to clock in for work, when someone knocked.

Who on earth could that possibly be?

You opened the door.

Olivia Walker, John’s wife, stood there holding her son against her hip like she was shielding him from the world. “I didn’t… I didn’t know where else to go.”

You froze. Olivia noticed.

“Is this a bad time?” She asked hesitantly, “Are you busy?’

You opened your mouth to say the words you wanted to say, perhaps I need to go to work, I can’t, I’m busy, but you didn’t.

Because you couldn’t turn her away.

Olivia wasn’t just John’s wife. She was your friend, too. She had laughed at your bad hair days in high school. She had been a popular girl in the cheer squad when you were too loud and too sarcastic, and yet she always included you. That's when you dragged her into the cafeteria to introduce to John, thinking, somehow, that maybe sparks would fly and everything would fall into place.

And for someone you cared about, and someone who clearly cared for you… you’d do anything for her.

“No.” you said, opening the door a little wider, “No… come in.”

—

After Olivia tucked her son into your bed, the same one you’d crawled into half-dead more times than you could count, she built a little baby‑gate out of mountains of pillows. She smoothed his hair, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and stood there for a while.

When she finally emerged from your room, her eyes looked older than you remembered. She hovered by your couch until you gestured for her to sit. She sat on the edge, hands knotted in her son’s blanket.

You both just… sat there, letting the silence stretch, letting her gather whatever shards of courage were left.

She inhaled. “I’m leaving John.”

It hit you like a punch, like one of those blunt, center‑mass strikes that knocked the breath out of you.

“You… y-you mean,” you croaked, thinner than you expected, “like… you’re done?”

Olivia nodded, the smallest nod imaginable. “I can’t stay.”

You stared at her. This was Olivia. Sweet, bright‑as‑sunshine Olivia. And John. Yeah, he had been complicated, hot‑headed, occasionally a bull in a china shop, but you’d see him in ways other people didn’t. You were there when he took her to prom. You helped him propose to her. You’d watched him wedding‑day nervous. You’d heard him talk about her like she hung the damn moon.

“What… what happened?” you whispered. “He, John? He was…” Perfect, stable, whole. “…a good husband.”

“He was.” She swallowed hard. “He tried. I don’t think he meant to change. But… after… After Lemar, he got recruited by this woman, Val. I don’t even know who she really is, but John said she gave him purpose. She gave him missions. He was gone all the time, and… he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

She stopped, pressing the heel of her palm to her eyes before she completely broke. Tears started streaming down her eyes, and before you could say anything, she leaned on your shoulders and broke down completely.

“He started coming home angry, and bruised, and then detached… And I can’t—” Her voice cracked. “I don’t want my son to look at his father and think that’s normal.”

Your heart sank.

So… John wasn’t a perfect husband. John was just like you. Self‑destructive. Running toward violence because standing still hurt worse. He needed the next hit of adrenaline, the next bruise, the next fight because it drowned out the voices in his head.

And the worst part was that you understood him more than Olivia could ever know.

Your voice came out small. “Olivia… he—he didn’t hurt you, right?”

“No,” she said immediately. “Never. He’s still John. But he’s… lost. And I can’t follow him into whatever he’s doing. I can’t drag our baby into that life.”

You nodded slowly. Little did she know, she wasn’t just describing John. She was describing you.

Your bruises, your secrecy, your spiral. The way the violence was a pressure valve and a prison at the same time.

Olivia took a shaky breath. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

You rubbed your palms against your jeans, suddenly aware your hands were shaking. You wanted to tell her you were scared shitless, that you were standing on the same ledge John had fallen from.

But you couldn’t pile that on her. So instead, you reached out, covered her hands with yours, and said, “you did the right thing coming here.”

—

After microwaving a portion of Bucky’s mashed potatoes and giving it to Olivia, you caught her looking at hotel rooms, frantically searching for accommodation that had any rooms left at the last minute.

But she wasn’t doing that on your watch. You stepped aside and motioned toward your bedroom. “You can stay here tonight,” you said.

Olivia looked at you, surprise flickering across her face. “I… I can’t let you sleep on the couch in your own home,” she said.

You shook your head, a rueful smile tugging at your lips. “It’s okay, Olivia. I… I can stay with Bucky tonight.”

Her brow furrowed, almost knowing. “Bucky?”

“Yeah,” you said, trying to sound casual. “He doesn’t live too far.”

Olivia’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction. “I… okay,” she said, and the tension in her posture softened, just a little.

You gave her a small, reassuring smile, stepping back to let her settle in as you packed an overnight bag.

Before you left, you looked at the picture of you, Lemar, and John in boot camp, and picked it up.

For the first time in month, you could look at it without feeling like you had to throw up.

—

Bucky’s apartment was lit only by the streetlamp bleeding in through the window. You stood outside his door for a good thirty seconds before knocking, bag slung over your shoulder.

The door opened almost immediately.

Bucky’s hair was damp, curls pushed back from his forehead, like he’d just showered. He was wearing sweatpants and a worn shirt that clung to his chest in ways you really, really shouldn’t be noticing right now.

“Hey,” he greeted softly, the way he always talked to you.

You swallowed. “Can I stay here tonight?”

His brows lifted slightly in surprise.

“What, no work?” he asked, leaning against the frame. “Door factory closed early tonight?”

You snorted despite yourself. “Bucky—”

“You work every Friday,” he said. “You always do.” He wasn’t accusing you, but he just knew you.

Your throat tightened. You stared at the floor. “I… I’m quitting.”

That made him tilt his head. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He could see the storm under your skin. He could always see it.

He opened the door fully. “Come in.”

You stepped inside. The familiar warmth of his apartment made you feel at home. You came to love the waterstain on the counter, the lingering steam from his shower, the hum of the old heater in the wall. It always felt like safety.

Bucky closed the door behind you, turning slowly, like he was giving you space to run. Or to stay.

You kept your eyes on the floor, fingers twisting in the strap of your bag.

After a long while, you finally said, “I don’t want any more secrets between us.”

Oh, Bucky thought.

You swallowed hard, your voice coming out afraid. “I talked to Olivia.”

His brows pulled together. “About John?”

You nodded, a shaky breath slipping out. “She came over with their baby. She… told me what he was like after Lemar. He… he pushed her away. He didn’t tell her everything.”

Bucky listened, guiding you to sit down on his couch.

“I saw myself in him,” you whispered. “And it scared the hell out of me.”

Bucky sat next to you, human hand holding yours now.

You forced the words out before you lost the courage. “I’ve been fighting underground.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to you. You could tell he was surprised, that he didn’t expect it. But in that moment, all your bruises, all your cuts started to make more and more sense,

You kept going. “I started after— after moving. I didn’t know how else to feel anything but grief. Or to shut it all off. I didn’t tell anyone.”

Your hands were shaking now, but Bucky held you, rubbing small circles on the palm of your hand.

“And when Sam found me…” you continued, “I was losing on purpose. I-I didn’t care if I got hurt. I didn’t care if I didn’t get up.”

You felt a tear fall, and wiped it quickly.

“I didn’t want you to look at me broken,” you whispered.“I thought you’d judge me. Or walk away. Or decide I wasn’t worth the trouble.”

You finally lifted your eyes.

“I didn’t want to lose you,” you whispered.

Bucky sighed, lifting one hand to your cheek. His thumb brushed away the rest of the tears you hadn't bothered to hide.

“Sam knew,” he observed, not bitterly. Not jealous.

You nodded, ashamed.

“And not me,” he said.

Your throat threatened to close. “I was afraid.”

“You should’ve told me,” he cupped the back of your neck, gently pulling your forehead to his. “You shouldn't've put me on some pedestal where I can’t reach you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m trying not to.”

His fingers slid into your hair. “That’s all that matters.”

“I’m tired,” you whispered, voice breaking on every syllable, “I’m so fucking tired.”

“I know.” He said. “But look how far you’ve come.”

You let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “I’m a mess, Buck.”

He shook his head, brushing his nose against yours. “I’m proud of you.”

“Why?” you whispered, desperate.

“Because,” he said. “Because you are here telling me the truth even though it’s ripping you apart. Because I’m glad, even if it's not me, that you let Sam help. You let someone help.”

“I thought… you’d hate me,” you breathed.

Bucky pulled you into him, his arms around you, his metal hand spanning your back like a shield. You clutched his shirt, fingers curling tight in the fabric.

His voice dropped to a whisper against your temple.“I could never hate you.”

Your body shook as he held you tighter.

“I don’t want Lemar’s death to turn me they way it turned John,” you cried into his chest. “I don’t want to push you away. I don’t want the violence to be the only place I feel alive. I don’t want to lose the only person I—”

Your voice cracked again.

“The only person I love.”

Bucky’s hand in your hair froze. His heartbeat kicked against your cheek, like you’d shocked him back to life.

“I... This… whatever this is—” You lifted your head, eyes burning. “No. I know what it is. It’s love. I love you.”

He lifted your chin in his hands. “I love you too,” he whispered, “You know I have loved you for a while.”

His thumb traced the curve of your bottom lip, You felt the world spin, the way it did when you first kissed him.

“Come here,” he breathed.

He didn’t yank you forward. He guided you, giving you space to pull away, right up until you closed that last distance yourself.

Bucky kissed you like he’d done so many times, your breath tangled with his. His hands slid from your jaw to cradle the back of your head. His other arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you in until you didn’t know where you ended and he began.

His lips parted against yours, asking without demanding. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his T-shirt, pulling him closer. He made a low sound in his throat, and you responded in kind with a sigh.

Bucky pulled away, his forehead resting against yours, both of you holding that breathless space between wanting and restraint, catching the moment before it could burn too fast.

And today, of all days, you understood what you had once done for Lemar, and for John, you’d do the same for Bucky.

For him, you’d stay alive.

For him, you’d face life as a worthy opponent.

-end.

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Idea that I might never write: reader as part of Thunderbolts* and Bucky helping her reconcile with John.