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you can find my fic masterlist here! right now it is not big enough to be divided up by fandom etc.
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Your palms flatten against his chest. The tactical vest is rough under your fingers, warmed by his body heat. You're not sure if you're pushing him away or pulling him closer. Neither is he. That's the thing about this—neither of you knows what it is, or what it means.
That uncertainty terrifies you more than the Madame ever did.
Pairings: Red Room!Winter Soldier x Black Widow!Reader
Warnings: Minors DNI; Explicit Sexual Content (penetrative, no protection used!) Dubcon/Noncon (can be read either way, but it's slightly more dubcon-y than noncon-y), Power Imbalance, Canon-Typical Violence, Psychological Conditioning, Brainwashing, Memory Loss, (basically) Porn With Plot
Additional Tags: No Y/N, Pre-Civil War & Post-Civil War AU, Dark Romance-ish, Angst with Happy Ending(?), Kind Of A Cliffhanger Ending TBH, Tragic(?) Romance
Author's Note: missed my winter soldier and i needed to write something cathartic. tbh this one might get a sequel in the future. it's just such a rich set-up,,, you'll see what i mean. i'll be posting this to ao3 later when i feel up to writing a summary for it lmao
All Fics Tag List: @herejustforbuckybarnes
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His Best Work (4.7k)
Three hours.
You've been on the mat for three hours and your body stopped sending pain signals forty minutes ago. That's not a good sign. You know this the way you know everything now—clinically, distantly, filed under information that may be relevant to survival.
The Asset circles you.
He moves like something that learned human motion from a textbook, and then improved on it. There's no wasted energy. No tells. You've been watching him for six months and you still can't read his patterns, still can't find the seams in his technique that would let you slip through.
That's the point. That's why Madame assigned him to you, specifically.
His best work, she called you once. You don't know if she meant it as a compliment or not.
Blood drips from your split lip onto the mat. You don't wipe it. Wiping it would be a tell—would signal that you're aware of the injury, that it's affecting you. The Asset would see it. The instructors on the observation deck would note it. Neither outcome serves you.
"Again," he orders.
His voice is flat. Not cruel, but certainly not kind. Just... operational. Like the word is a function being executed rather than a command being given.
You reset your stance. Your left foot forward, weight distributed, hands up and waiting. Your left shoulder is screaming—you landed on it wrong twenty minutes ago and something shifted that shouldn't have—but you keep your guard even.
He comes at you without warning.
The first strike you block. The second. The third clips your ribs and you feel something crack, a small wet sound inside your chest that you file away for later. The fourth you redirect, using his momentum to spin out of range, buying yourself half a second of breathing room.
He doesn't let you have it.
His metal hand catches your wrist and twists, and suddenly you're airborne, the ceiling spinning past, and then the mat slams into your back hard enough to empty your lungs.
You don't stay down. Staying down is death. Staying down is for the other girls, the ones who washed out, the ones who went to the infirmary and never came back. You roll, get your feet under you, come up swinging.
He blocks it. Of course he does.
"Sloppy," he says bluntly. "You're favouring your left side."
You don't answer. Answering would be an admission. Instead you adjust your stance, redistribute your weight to compensate for the shoulder, and wait for him to come again.
He does.
The next exchange lasts eleven seconds. You count them in your head—one of the few things that's still yours, the counting, the quiet catalog of data that runs underneath everything else. Eleven seconds of blocking and redirecting and trying to find an opening that doesn't exist.
He puts you on the mat again. This time your vision whites out for three seconds when you hit.
"Get up."
And you get up.
The observation deck is dark, but you can feel them all watching. Two instructors, maybe three. They're evaluating. They're always evaluating. Every session with the Asset is a test, and the passing grade is your survival.
You've been passing for six months. Some nights you're not sure if that makes you lucky, or cursed.
The Asset resets to neutral. Feet shoulder-width apart, hands loose at his sides, face utterly blank. The arm gleams under the fluorescent lights—the only part of him that looks like what he actually is.
"Your breathing is irregular. Control it."
You control it. Four counts in, four counts out. The cracked rib protests but you don't let it show on your face.
He watches you. Those eyes—pale, empty, like someone scooped out whatever used to live behind them and left only the machinery—track across your stance, your hands, your center of gravity. Reading you the way you can't read him.
"Better."
It's not praise. Praise doesn't exist here. It's an assessment. A data point. You've moved from inadequate to acceptable and that's all the acknowledgment of it you're going to get.
He comes at you again.
This time you last fourteen seconds before you hit the mat.
Which is progress.
The session ends at precisely 04:15, on the dot.
You're still standing. Barely. Your left shoulder is definitely dislocated now, and the cracked rib has company—two more, maybe three, you'll know for certain when the adrenaline wears off and the pain comes back online. Blood is drying on your chin, your lip swelling where it had split, after he'd punched you square in the face.
At least he hadn't broken your nose. That was something.
The Asset stands three feet away, watching you. He's not even breathing hard. "Report to medical," he orders. "You have four hours before the next session."
You nod. Speaking would require energy you don't have.
He turns to go. The instructors are already filing out of the observation deck, their clipboards full of notes you'll never see. Another session logged. Another night survived.
You should move. You should get to medical, get the shoulder reset, get taped up before the next round. That's the protocol. That's what a good Widow does.
But the Asset pauses at the door.
He doesn't turn around. Doesn't look at you. Just... stops. For three seconds—you count them—he stands there, metal hand on the frame, and something in the line of his shoulders shifts. Not much. Anyone else would miss it.
You don't miss it.
Then he's gone, and you're alone on the training floor with your blood on the mat and four hours until you have to do this again.
You start walking toward medical.
The hallway is empty—always empty at this hour, the other Widows in their bunks, the instructors gone to wherever instructors go when they're not watching you bleed. You're halfway to the infirmary when you hear the footsteps behind you.
You don't turn around. You don't have to, because you know exactly who it is who's following.
His hand closes around your arm—the good one, not the dislocated shoulder, which is a small mercy—and he pulls you sideways into the nearby equipment room. The door clicks shut, and the lock snicks into place.
There's no cameras in here. You know this because he'd made you map the blind spots in the facility your second week here, filing them away under potentially useful. You never thought about why until he first shoved you against the wall in one of them and you understood exactly what kind of useful he meant.
It's strange. He doesn't do this with the other Widows. Just you. Just you and him in locked rooms and abandoned corridors, as if you'd both made some unspoken agreement about the things that happen in the dark.
The Asset doesn't say anything. He never does, not during this. His hands are already on you—metal fingers curling around your hip, flesh hand fisting in your hair, tilting your head back until you're looking at the ceiling instead of him.
He smells like gun oil and sweat and something colder underneath, something that isn't quite human.
You should fight. You're trained to fight. Every instinct Madame drilled into you says resist, redirect, escape.
But you don't move.
One breath. Two. Your body makes the decision before your mind catches up, because his mouth is on your throat. Not gently—nothing about him is gentle—but not entirely brutal either. His teeth scrape over your pulse point, then his tongue drags salt and copper from your skin, following the line of dried blood from your split lip down to your jaw. He's tasting you. Cataloging you the same way he catalogs your weaknesses on the training floor.
Your palms flatten against his chest. The tactical vest is rough under your fingers, warmed by his body heat. You're not sure if you're pushing him away or pulling him closer. Neither is he. That's the thing about this—neither of you knows what it is, or what it means.
That uncertainty terrifies you more than the Madame ever did.
He spins you around. Your cheek hits the cold concrete wall and you hiss at the pressure on your split lip, but his hand is already between your shoulder blades, pinning you there, and his other hand—the metal one—is working the fastenings of your training suit.
"My shoulder," you warn flatly. It's the only protest you're going to make.
He pauses, and it lasts only a fraction of a second. Then his grip shifts, avoiding the dislocated joint, and he yanks the suit down to your waist.
The air is freezing against your bare skin. Goosebumps rise in its wake, nipples hardening from cold and something else, something your body knows even when your mind refuses to name it. You're shaking—not from the session anymore, not from exhaustion. From this. From him. From not knowing if this is something you want or something that's been programmed into you the same way combat sequences are programmed into him.
His metal hand traces the line of your spine. The plates are cold, inhumanly smooth, and you arch into it despite yourself, despite everything. The seam between two plates presses, just barely, against a bruise he left last week—a sharp reminder of what he is, what you're doing, and why you shouldn't want it.
And yet, here you are.
When he kicks your feet apart, you let him. Those metal fingers of his slide between your thighs, beneath the waistband of your underwear and find your cunt already soaked—slick and swollen, your body betraying you the way it always does with him. You don't know if it's fear or arousal or some fucked-up combination of both that the Red Room bred into you both.
You don't know if this is just the result of animal instinct or if there's something more to it.
You do know that he doesn't ask first before touching you—he never does.
The Asset starts with one finger first, circling your entrance patiently, as if he has all the time in the world. He waits, letting you feel the threat before he delivers on it. Then he pushes inside—two fingers, knuckle-deep—and your forehead hits the wall, a choked sound dying in your throat.
"Quiet," he growls. It's the first word he's spoken since this started.
You bite your already-split lip to keep the sound in. The taste of copper floods your mouth as the flesh rips anew. He doesn't care. His fingers are moving—rough, efficient, the same way he does everything—and you clench around them helplessly, body responding even when your mind is still trying to catch up.
He adds a third finger, and you gasp.
His flesh hand comes up to cover your mouth, immediately, and it squeezes tight in a silent warning across your face. Be quiet or we get caught. You know the calculus. You've done it before. Whatever this is, it will cease to exist if anyone sees you.
You nod against his palm and he takes his hand away. In the same motion, his metal fingers withdraw, despite the way your hips buck to keep them inside you. Wordlessly, he pushes those slick fingers past your lips and into your mouth, making you gag slightly.
"Clean."
The order is utterly degrading. But you've been trained to obey such orders without question, and so you do—tasting a heady mix of your own blood and essence and the metallic tang of his fingers. As you work, he yanks your suit and underwear both down and over your hips, baring your ass to the cool air.
You hear his zipper. The rustle of fabric. Then the head of his cock pressing against you, thick and blunt, and you brace your palms against the wall because you know what's coming.
He doesn't ease in. The Asset doesn't know how to ease into anything, you think.
The first inch burns. His metal fingers are still in your mouth and you bite down on them, but he doesn't stop. He pushes forward—slow, relentless, inevitable—and your body screams at the stretch but you take it. Inch by inch.
When he finally bottoms out, he stops. His hips flush against your ass, his cock so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. His thumb strokes against your jawline in a gesture that's almost tender, even as your teeth dig into his artificial fingers hard enough to leave marks.
Two seconds. He gives you exactly two seconds to adjust.
Then he starts to move.
It's not kind. It's not cruel. It's necessary, somehow—that's the only word you can think of for it. Like both of you need this the way you need water or air, like the programming left a gap in both your heads, and this is the only thing that can possibly fill it.
His hips snap ruthlessly against your ass—the slap of skin on skin, the creak of his tactical gear, the slick sound of him fucking into you filling the little equipment room—and you bite down harder on his hand to keep from making noise. Your cracked ribs scream. Your dislocated shoulder screams. Everything screams except your mouth, which stays perfectly silent.
He fucks you like he fights you—relentless, mechanical, and utterly focused. Your fingers scrabble against concrete, nails scraping yet finding no purchase. That coil in your belly winds tighter and you hate it, hate how easily he can take you apart. Hate that your body responds to him even when your mind is screaming that this is wrong, so wrong, you shouldn't be doing this, neither of you should be doing this.
But you don't want him to stop. That's the worst part. You want him to break you open and leave you empty and do it again tomorrow night. You want this to be yours, even if nothing else is. You want him to be yours.
You push back against him—not to escape, to take him deeper. You control the angle now, grinding down on him, and he stalls for half a second—surprised, maybe, or just processing the new information—before his grip on your hip tightens and he meets you thrust for thrust.
You try to whisper please around his fingers but the words are garbled nonsense. You don't know what you're asking for, anyway. More? Less? Something in the between? Does it even matter? He'll give it to you, whether you beg for it or not.
And, predictably, he doesn't answer. But he knows. That's why he reaches around youand finds your clit with his fingers—pressing exactly where you need it, ruthless, unrelenting—and you come. Hard.
Your vision goes white. Your cunt clamps down on him hard, spasming, your legs shaking so hard that you would've collapsed if he wasn't pinning you to the wall. A sound tears out of you—louder than before—and he withdraws his metal fingers so his hand can clamp over your mouth again, swallowing it, muffling it, and he doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. He fucks you through it while you shake apart against the concrete.
When you come down from the orgasm—if you come down at all—he's still moving. Faster and rougher this time, chasing his own release. So you let him use you. You're loose. Pliant. The aftershocks are still rolling through you, your cunt still fluttering, oversensitive and aching and his.
He comes with a low grunt that sounds like it's been torn from his throat. The sound is almost feral, nothing like the controlled efficiency of his fighting or the flat assessment of his training. For a moment, his entire body goes rigid against yours—the metal arm spasming, the flesh hand gripping the wall so hard, you actually hear the concrete crack under his fingers. Then he shudders, a full-body tremor that runs through him and into you, and he pumps his load deep inside you, claiming you in a way that has nothing to do with the Red Room or Dreykov or any of the programming that brought either of you here.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both just breathing and suspended in the aftermath. His forehead is pressed to your back now, his weight still pinning you to the wall, and you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your spine even through his tactical vest. It's the most alive you've ever felt him, the most human, and the thought terrifies you almost as much as the way your body is still responding to his, still clenching around him inside you.
Then, he pulls out. At once you feel his come dripping down your thighs and you know you should clean up, should get to medical, should pretend this never happened the way you always pretend.
But he's still behind you, still trapping you against him. His forehead has moved to rest against the back of your neck, his stubble scraping your skin, and his breath hot and damp against your spine. You feel him shaking—barely, minutely, the kind of tremor no one else would notice—but you're trained to notice such things.
"Don't..." he starts, then stops. You wait, but he doesn't finish the sentence. You don't know if he was going to say don't move or don't go or don't tell anyone, and you'll spend the next twenty-three years wondering that.
For exactly seven seconds he stays there. Not moving. Not pulling away. Just... present. His breath syncs with yours. You memorize the rhythm.
You want to turn around. You want to see his face. You want to know if he looks as broken as you feel, if this breaks him open the way it breaks you. You want to see what he almost said.
You don't move.
Then he steps back.
You hear him fixing his clothes. The rustle of fabric, the zip of his tactical gear. You don't turn around. You're not sure what you'd see if you did.
"Medical," he finally says, in the same flat voice as before. Like nothing happened.
You manage to nod. You pull your suit back up, ignoring the ache between your legs, the throb of your shoulder, and the taste of blood still fresh in your mouth. You swipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to wipe away the evidence.
When you turn around, he's already gone.
The door is unlocked. The hallway is empty. Four hours until the next session.
You start walking toward medical again.
This time, you make it.
The mark is late. If you had enough free will to care, you'd be annoyed by this. But you don't.
Your tactical watch reads 17:42 when you check it—it's 2016, the wind biting at any exposed skin. Budapest, rooftop overlooking the Danube, the river dark below and the Parliament lights reflecting like broken glass on the water.
You've been in position for forty-three minutes. The wind cutting through your tactical gear. The temperature dropping rapidly, as soon as the sun sets. These are facts. You catalog them the way you catalog everything—distantly, clinically, filed under mission parameters.
Facts are all that your world contains, ever since your training had been complete and your mind subjugated. Ever since, you've been a puppet, dancing to the tune of your handlers. Living separate to your own body, watching from the outside.
And yet, it's still you.
Anya's voice crackles in your ear, and that familiar, cold tone of hers snaps you back to focus. "Status," she demands.
"In position," you reply.
"Target approaching from the east. ETA two minutes."
You adjust your scope accordingly. Your sight lines are clear. The exit routes are mappe and the contingencies planned. You're efficient. You've always been efficient.
My best work, General Dreykov had once called you, a proud glint in his beady eyes. That praise was like a drug to you, a high like no other that you chased after every successful mission—
—there's movement in your peripheral vision. It's coming from the wrong direction. Not the target. Someone else.
You pivot, weapon coming up, and that's when you see him.
He's on the adjacent rooftop. Thirty meters out and watching you, the same way you're now watching him.
Your training catalogs the threat automatically. Male, approximately 1.8 meters, heavy build, tactical gear, metal left arm. The way he moves—controlled, purposeful, combat-trained—triggers something in your memory that your programming immediately suppresses.
You don't know him.
No. You do know him.
That contradiction doesn't compute. You push it aside and sight in on his centre mass.
He doesn't take cover. Doesn't draw a weapon. Just stands there, watching you with an expression you can't read.
"Interference," you report to your fellow Widow. "Neutralizing."
But Anya doesn't respond and you don't have the time to wonder why that is.
The man on the other rooftop moves before you can squeeze the trigger. Not toward you—toward the fire escape, dropping down to street level with the kind of efficiency that makes your muscle memory scream with recognition you're not allowed to have.
He's coming for you.
You abandon the mark, dropping your rifle and running. Training dictates threat prioritization; unknown combatant in close proximity supersedes all. You move to intercept, dropping through the access hatch into the stairwell.
He's already inside the building.
You know this because you can hear him. Footsteps—measured, deliberate, not trying to hide. Like he wants you to know where he is.
You clear the third-floor landing and he's there, standing in the corridor, hands visible and non-threatening.
Withdrawing your sidearm, you put three rounds centre mass.
He moves. Fast—too fast for someone his size—and the shots go wide. Concrete dust explodes from the wall behind him, and despite the pistol holstered at his hip, he doesn't return fire.
"Stop!" He yells instead. You don't stop. You never stop. You close the distance, planning to disable him permanently, but he's faster than you expect. His metal hand sweeps out and knocks the pistol from your grip before you can fire again. The weapon clatters across the concrete floor, out of reach.
Disarmed. But your training adapts, always adapts. You engage hand-to-hand without hesitation.
He blocks your first strike with his right hand—precise, controlled. Your second he meets with the metal arm, the impact vibrating up your bones in a way that's terrifyingly familiar. Your third strike he redirects, using your momentum to spin you out of range, and the movement is so familiar your body completes the counter before your brain catches up. The same counter he taught you on the training mat in 1993.
You've fought this man before.
No. That's impossible. Your handler would have briefed you. Your files would show it.
And he's not attacking you, not really, not in the way he should. He's defending—blocking, redirecting, burning down your energy—and the whole time he's talking. "You don't have to do this," he says.
Incorrect. You do have to. That's what you are. What you're for.
You go for his throat. He catches your wrist—flesh hand, not metal—and the grip is controlled, not brutal. You twist, break his hold, drive your knee toward his solar plexus. He absorbs it with a grunt.
"I know you're in there," he continues. "Deep down. Let me help."
You don't know what that means. Of course you're in there, in your mind, caged by unseen bars. You drive your elbow toward his face. He blocks it with his metal arm and the impact vibrates up your bones and suddenly you're on a training mat, bleeding from a split lip, and—
—no. You shove the fragment away. Focus. Mission. Eliminate the threat.
But he's not fighting like a threat. He's fighting like someone trying not to hurt you, and that doesn't make sense, nothing makes sense. Your conditioning is screaming at you to disengage but your body won't stop fighting.
Your next strike falters. He doesn't capitalize on it. He just stands there, bleeding from somewhere—you must have landed a hit, you don't remember—and looking at you like you're a person instead of a weapon.
"I'm not going to fight you."
He sounds so resigned to this fact.
You hit him anyway. He takes it. Doesn't block or redirect. Just lets your fist connect with his jaw and he rocks back on his heels, the impact jarring his entire frame. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth—your blood, actually, from when your knuckles split against his teeth.
You're breathing hard. He's breathing harder, like he's been running. He's bleeding from somewhere—his temple, maybe, or his ribs where you landed a solid knee strike. Neither of you is winning. Neither of you is trying to win in the traditional sense.
He reaches into his vest slowly, deliberately, giving you time to react. His eyes never leave yours.
You tense. Gun. Knife. Weapon. Your hand drifts toward the knife at your ankle, the backup blade they always make you carry.
But his movements are too slow for a weapon draw. Too careful. He pulls out a small vial, no bigger than his thumb, and holds it up between you. The liquid inside catches the fluorescent light of the stairwell.
It's red.
"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice cracks on the word. Then he crushes the vial in his metal hand, and a crimson veil descends.
For a moment, nothing happens. The red dust hangs suspended in the air between you, glittering in the fluorescent light like deadly confetti. You tense to retreat, to escape, but his hand shoots out—his red-flecked metal fingers wrapping around your upper arm—and he yanks you forward into the cloud fully.
You try to hold your breath, try to fight, but his other hand comes up to hold the back of your neck, squeezing hard enough that it panics you into inhaling. The dust floods your lungs—sharp, burning as it goes down—and you struggle against him, but it's too late. He's stronger than you, and he's not letting go.
Then, it hits you—
—like waking up. No, like remembering you were asleep. No, like drowning and surfacing and the air is too bright, too sharp, too real—
—the Red Room the training floor the Asset his hands his mouth the cold the counting the thing without a name—
—Madame's voice Dreykov's conditioning the handlers the marks the missions the blood that wasn't yours the blood that was—
—his name your name the names you swallowed the words you never said the four seconds with his forehead against your neck and you thought please but you never said please stay—
—1993 to now every locked door every mission every kill and none of it was you it was the thing they made you and oh God oh God oh—
—he releases you and your knees hit the ground, hard.
The world is too loud. Your body is shaking. There's blood in your mouth but it's old blood, twenty-three-year-old blood, and you can taste the iron and the split lip and the way he never kissed you on the mouth because that would have meant something.
Someone is crying. You don't know if it's you or not, but it must be, because the tears are hot on your cheeks.
Then there's hands on your shoulders—you flinch away from the touch, your training screaming threat threat threat—but they don't tighten and they don't hurt. The hands just steady you, hold you together while you shake apart. Slowly, so slowly, you're adjusted until your head is pillowed by a metal arm and your back is pressed against a warm, solid chest.
Your vision is swimming. You can't see him, can't see anything but the red dust and the fluorescent lights overhead and the way every memory you thought you'd buried is clawing its way back to the surface.
"I've got you. You're safe. I've got you." It's like a mantra, whispered in your ear, over and over as you're rocked, slowly. "I looked for you. I looked for you everywhere."
His lips brush your temple, a feather-light kiss that you barely feel. Your senses are completely overblown right now, and every sound, every touch, every smell is amplified a hundredfold as the red dust burns the poison out of your mind.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Finally, your eyes focus. He's so close, his face inches from your own. The Asset, you recall dimly. It's the Asset who is holding you now.
The corridor seemed to tilt around him. Uncooperative. It conjured images of Charlie's stubborn chin, the defiant set of her shoulders, even when she was trembling with fear. He could picture it too easily—her refusing to give Zola whatever he wanted, standing her ground in that quiet, furious way she had. Anger flared in his chest, so intense it stole his breath.
"She's just a girl," he growled. He couldn't help it. The image of her, small and alone in some dark, cold room, was unbearable.
Pairing: 40s!Bucky Barnes x fem!OC
Warnings: Minors DNI; Explicit Sexual Content, PTSD, War, Captivity, Nazi Germany, Experimentation, Torture.
Additional Tags: Canon x OC, WW2, Clairvoyant!fem!OC, Angst & Hurt/Comfort, Supportive Howling Commandos :), Slow Burn, Strangers To Friends To Lovers, Language Barrier, He Falls First (She Falls Harder), Tragic Romance, Planned Cliffhanger Ending, May be subject to more tags being added.
Author's Note: yes, i am back - i might do a post to explain my unexpected hiatus but tl;dr best friend died, got a new job, lots of life changes. but, i got a sign today that i should keep working on my in-progress fics, so, here i am back on schedule. this chapter is admittedly pretty heavy, and i don't say that lightly; chapter-specific warnings for explicit mentions of nazi concentration camps (specifically mauthausen, in austria), and aspects/details of the holocaust. this was very important to me to include in this story, and i tried to handle its inclusion with as much grace as i could, whilst still being true to the genuine horror of history. as i said, proceed with caution if you think you might be sensitive to those topics & themes. if you'd like to skip that portion of the chapter, just read up until the end of Bucky's POV and then scroll to the end of the chapter; i will include a summary of Charlie's POV there!
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Chapter Six (4.0k) — She's Just A Girl
The Boy From Brooklyn
The sunlight was a physical shock after the endless fluorescent glare of the labs. It hit Bucky square in the face as he stepped into the courtyard, making him blink and raise a hand to shield his eyes. The air was crisp and cold, smelling of pine and snow, a welcome change from the antiseptic stench that seemed to permeate every inch of the base. He took a deep, shuddering breath, filling his lungs with the clean air.
He'd been in the labs for twenty-four hours straight. Twenty-four hours of needles and electrodes, of cold metal tables and humming machines. Twenty-four hours of Zola's soft, insistent questions and Reinhardt's cold, clinical hands. They'd drawn blood, hooked him up to strange, whirring devices, injected him with substances that burned like ice in his veins. They'd tested his reflexes, his strength, his endurance. They'd pushed him to his limits and beyond.
He was exhausted, his body aching in a hundred different places. His skin felt raw and hypersensitive, every nerve ending humming with a strange, electric energy. But he was alive. And he was outside.
The courtyard was small, a grim, concrete space surrounded by high walls topped with barbed wire. A few other prisoners were there, shuffling along the perimeter in slow, aimless circles. They were gaunt, hollow-eyed, their prison uniforms hanging loose on their bony frames. None of them met his eyes.
Bucky walked to the far end of the courtyard, where a thin strip of grass struggled to grow against the base of the wall. He leaned against the cold concrete, tipping his head back to catch the weak autumn sun. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sight of the barbed wire, the sound of the guards' boots on the pavement, the low murmur of the other prisoners.
"The fresh air is not the same as it once was, is it, my friend?"
Bucky didn't open his eyes, just let out a low, humourless chuckle. The gravelly texture of Pavel's voice was a constant in the disorienting quiet; he was beginning to understand why Charlie leaned on him so much. "Doesn't taste like Brooklyn, that's for damn sure." He finally cracked an eye open, taking in Pavel's battered form leaning against the wall beside him. The fresh scabs on his knuckles were a dark, violent red against his pale skin. "Still giving 'em hell in the pits?"
Pavel gave a slight, weary shrug, the gesture speaking volumes about the kind of hell it was. "It passes the time. Better than the alternative." His gaze, sharp and assessing even in his exhaustion, scanned Bucky from head to toe. "They worked you over good."
"You could say that." Bucky pushed off the wall, rolling his shoulders in a futile attempt to loosen the tight, coiled feeling that the injections had left behind. It felt like every muscle was wound too tight, ready to snap. "Feels like I got run over by a tank, then they backed it up and did it again for good measure. What about the others? Ray? Sammy?" He'd started to learn the names and faces of the others, slowly. It was a scrap of humanity to cling to, in this rotten place.
A shadow crossed Pavel's face at the mention of them, though. "Kline is holding. Barely. They took Ray back down this morning. He was... not good." He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. The image of Ray's vacant eyes and trembling hands was seared into Bucky's memory.
Bucky grimaced as he scanned the handful of other prisoners shuffling in the yard. He checked the corners. The shadows. He looked for the smaller frame, the messy chestnut hair that always caught the light. He looked until he ran out of places to look.
But she wasn't there.
A cold knot, different from the ache in his muscles, formed in his gut. He turned back to Pavel, keeping his voice low. "Where's Charlie?"
Pavel's expression didn't change, but something in his posture shifted—subtle, guarded. He glanced toward the nearest guard, standing stiff-backed near the gate, then back to Bucky. His voice dropped lower, barely more than a breath beneath the brittle air.
"Brandt took her yesterday," he said. "Right after you left."
Bucky went very still. "And?"
"And, nothing." Pavel rubbed a thumb over his scuffed knuckles, his gaze fixed on the dirt. "She did not return to the ward, last night. I asked. But, no one says anything."
Bucky's fingers curled into his palms, the tension in his body ratcheting tighter. He didn't like that. Didn't like it at all. He'd barely begun to understand the rhythm of this place, but he knew one thing for certain—when someone disappeared, they didn't always come back. And if they did, they definitely weren't the same.
He turned his face back to the sun, but the warmth no longer reached him. His mind replayed the moment from the night before—Charlie's trembling breath, the way she'd flinched from his touch, the fear in her eyes when she whispered her brother's name. He hadn't pushed her. He'd stayed. He'd given her space. And now, she was gone.
He forced his voice to remain even. "Where would they take her?"
Pavel didn't answer right away. He studied Bucky for a long moment, then gave a slow, reluctant shake of his head. "Not where we go," he said, finally. "I—"
"—Ruhig!"
The guard's sharp command cut through the cold air, like a whip crack. Bucky didn't need a translation; based on the tone, it probably meant something along the lines of 'shut the hell up'. He fell silent immediately, his jaw snapping shut with an audible click. He kept his gaze fixed on the distant wall, on the jagged line of the pine trees beyond the wire, forcing his expression into a mask of weary indifference.
Pavel did the same, his face becoming a blank slate, all trace of their conspiratorial exchange wiped clean. The guard watched them for another long moment, his hand resting on the butt of the energy weapon holstered at his hip, before turning his attention back to the other shuffling prisoners.
But Bucky's mind raced. Where the hell had they taken her? And why?
He glanced at Pavel out of the corner of his eye. The Czech's face was a study in grim resignation. He'd seen this before. He knew the patterns of this place, the unspoken rules of its particular brand of hell. And whatever he knew about Charlie's disappearance, it wasn't good.
The remaining minutes of their yard time dragged. The weak sun did nothing to warm the chill that had settled deep in Bucky's bones. Every shuffle of a foot, every distant clang of a metal door, made his heart jump. He kept expecting to see her, to see that flash of chestnut hair, to see her small, determined frame walking back into the ward.
But she never appeared.
Finally, a whistle blew, sharp and shrill. Yard time was over. The guards began herding the prisoners back toward the heavy doors that led into the bowels of the base.
The march back to the ward was a grim, silent procession. The brief taste of fresh air and weak sunlight had only made the return to the sterile, humming confines of Block C feel more suffocating. The heavy door clanged shut behind them, the bolt sliding home with a sound of finality that echoed in the tense quiet.
Bucky's eyes immediately went to the cot beside his. It was still empty. The chain lay on the floor, untouched.
His own cot felt more like a cage than ever. He sat on the edge of it, the worn springs groaning under his weight. The electric hum of the facility seemed to amplify in the silence, vibrating through the concrete floor and into his bones. He could still feel the ghost of the injections, a strange, lingering buzz beneath his skin. But that physical discomfort was nothing compared to the dread sitting heavy in his stomach, and the bite of the manacle refastened around his wrist.
He looked over at Pavel, who had settled onto his own cot with a weary sigh. The Czech met his gaze for a brief moment, his expression unreadable, before he lay back and closed his eyes, effectively shutting down any further conversation.
Bucky was left alone with his thoughts, which circled relentlessly around one thing: Charlie's empty cot. Not where we go. Not the labs. Not the pits. Somewhere else.
The hours crawled by. The ward was quieter than usual, the absence of her quiet presence a palpable void. The other prisoners kept to themselves, lost in their own private miseries. The only sounds were the low murmur of the guards outside the door, the occasional cough from one of the men, and the relentless, oppressive hum of the machinery.
Bucky lay on his back, staring up at the cracked, stained ceiling. He tried to sleep, to escape into unconsciousness, but it was useless. His mind wouldn't quiet.
The clatter of the door bolt sliding back was unusually loud in the hushed ward. Bucky's eyes snapped open, his body tensing automatically. It wasn't time for the evening meal. This was something else.
Dr. Brandt stood in the doorway, her auburn hair a severe slash of color against the drab grey walls. She held her clipboard like a shield, her gaze scanning the room before landing on him. Her face was professional, blank, but he thought he saw a flicker of something else in her eyes—nervous energy, perhaps, or the strain of long hours.
"Subject 24-BBJ," she said, her voice crisp. "With me."
The guard assigned to him moved forward, key in hand, to unfasten the manacle from his wrist. The cold metal fell away, leaving a raw, red band of skin. Bucky sat up slowly, his muscles protesting, every movement a reminder of the last twenty-four hours. He kept his face neutral, a blank slate, but his mind was racing. Was this about Charlie? Had something happened?
He followed Brandt out of the ward, the door closing behind them with its familiar, heavy finality. The corridor was empty, lit by the same unforgiving fluorescent lights.
Brandt didn't speak as she led him through the labyrinthine passages. The route was different this time, taking them deeper into the complex, away from the familiar examination rooms. The air grew colder, the hum of machinery louder, more intense. It was a sound that vibrated in his teeth.
Their footsteps echoed on the concrete floor, the only sound in the empty corridor. Bucky's unease grew with every step. He had to know. The not knowing was worse than whatever answer she could give him.
"Where is she?" he asked, his voice low, careful to keep any hint of accusation from his tone. He didn't look at Brandt directly, keeping his gaze straight ahead. "The girl. Charlotte. Where did they take her?"
Brandt didn't break stride, didn't even turn her head. For a long moment, he thought she wouldn't answer at all. Then, without looking at him, she spoke.
"Subject 17-CHL is in solitary confinement."
The words stopped him cold. Solitary confinement. Bucky's stride hitched for half a second before he forced himself to match her pace again. He knew what that meant. He'd heard stories, back in basic training, about what prolonged isolation could do to a man. To put a woman, already fragile from whatever Zola had been doing to her, in a hole by herself... His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the raw skin of his wrist stretching taut.
"For how long?" he asked, the question coming out rougher than he intended.
Brandt's pace slowed almost imperceptibly. She adjusted her grip on the clipboard, her knuckles white. "Forty-eight hours. It is a disciplinary measure." Her voice was clipped, professional, but there was a faint tremor beneath the clinical tone. She finally glanced at him, her gaze skittering away almost immediately. "Dr. Zola's orders. She was..." Brandt hesitated. "Uncooperative."
The corridor seemed to tilt around him. Uncooperative. It conjured images of Charlie's stubborn chin, the defiant set of her shoulders, even when she was trembling with fear. He could picture it too easily—her refusing to give Zola whatever he wanted, standing her ground in that quiet, furious way she had. Anger flared in his chest, so intense it stole his breath.
"She's just a girl," he growled. He couldn't help it. The image of her, small and alone in some dark, cold room, was unbearable.
This time, Brandt did stop. She turned to face him fully, her expression sharpening. The nervous energy he'd sensed earlier was gone, replaced by a brittle, defensive anger.
"You think I do not know that?" she hissed, her accent thickening, her fingers tightening around the clipboard until the knuckles turned white. "You think I enjoy this? That I choose this?"
Bucky didn't flinch. He held her gaze, his own steady, unreadable. He didn't trust her—how could he? She was one of them, after all. But there was something in her voice, in the way her eyes darted around as if afraid of being overheard, that told him she wasn't as indifferent as she pretended to be.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking her head. "She is not just a girl," she muttered, almost to herself. "She is... complicated. Dangerous, in her own way. Zola does not tolerate resistance. Not from anyone. Not even her."
Bucky's jaw tightened. "She's not dangerous. She's trying to survive."
Brandt let out a short, bitter laugh. "So are we all, Sergeant Barnes." She turned abruptly, resuming her brisk pace down the corridor. "Come. You will not see her again tonight. Not until the sentence is served."
Bucky followed, his mind churning. Forty-eight hours.
That was a long time to spend in the dark, with nothing but your own ghosts.
He kept his hands loose at his sides, his expression carefully neutral. But inside, something shifted. It wasn't just anger at what they were doing to a girl. It was recognition. She was fighting back. In a place designed to strip you of everything, she had found a way to say no.
He didn't know what Zola had planned for him next. Didn't know what was waiting at the end of this corridor. But he knew one thing.
He needed her to hold the line.
Finally, Dr. Brandt stopped before a heavy, reinforced door marked with a series of complex symbols. She produced a keycard from her lab coat and swiped it through a reader. A light on the panel turned from red to green, and the door unlocked with a heavy thunk of withdrawing bolts.
She pushed it open, revealing a room that was unlike any he'd seen so far.
It was dominated by a vertical cylinder of thick, leaded glass, reinforced with bands of iron. It didn't look futuristic; it looked industrial. Brutal. A bank of fat ceramic insulators crowned the top, connected to heavy cables that ran across the floor like black veins. Inside the glass, coils of copper wire sat waiting.
Inside the chamber, Dr. Zola and Dr. Reinhardt were waiting. Zola stood before a complicated control console, his small form dwarfed by the machinery, his spectacles reflecting the flickering lights. Reinhardt was nearer the apparatus itself, adjusting a series of dials with his unnervingly precise hands. He was humming that same, tuneless melody.
Zola turned as they entered, a thin smile stretching his lips. "Ah. Sergeant Barnes. Right on time. Dr. Brandt, your assistance is no longer required. You may return to your duties."
Brandt gave a tight, jerky nod. She didn't look at Bucky again. She simply turned and left, the heavy vault door sealing shut behind her with a sound of terrible finality, leaving him alone with the two doctors and the humming machine.
"Please," Zola said, gesturing to the center of the chamber, where a metal chair, studded with electrodes and restraint clamps, sat bathed in the machine's eerie glow. "Take your seat. We are ready to begin the next phase."
The Girl From Graz
Time had become a formless, viscous thing. Without light, without sound, without the rhythm of meals or the distant murmur of other prisoners, it stretched and warped around her.
Was it night? Was it day?
Charlie had no way of knowing. The only certainty was the slow, measured sound of her own breathing and the occasional, terrifying skitter of something small and unseen in the far corner.
Her stomach was a hollow, aching pit. The single canteen of water was nearly empty, and she rationed it in tiny, careful sips, letting each drop sit on her parched tongue before swallowing. The cold from the concrete floor had seeped into her joints, a permanent ache that made movement agony. She had long ago given up on the metal chair, preferring the hard floor, curled into a tight ball in the corner farthest from the door.
She dozed in fitful, nightmare-riddled bursts. Visions flickered behind her closed eyelids, disjointed and chaotic. The falling man, screaming into the void. The star-spangled man on the stage, his smile a mask of pain. Bucky's face, pale and strained in the dim light of the ward. Her brother Leo, calling her name from a great distance.
She jolted awake, heart hammering. The darkness was absolute. A suffocating blanket that pressed against her eyes, her nose, her mouth.
She needed an anchor. Something to hold onto before the silence dissolved her completely.
Mama.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to summon the kitchen in Graz. The smell of yeast. The warmth of the oven. The way her mother hummed when she kneaded dough. It was a safety raft she had clung to a thousand times before.
But she was too weak. Her mental walls, usually so carefully maintained, were paper-thin from hunger and fear. As she reached for the memory, she slipped. The image of the warm kitchen wavered, distorted—and then vanished entirely.
She didn't mean to look. She didn't want to look. But the current caught her, dragging her down into the dark.
The darkness behind her eyelids swirled, coalescing not into a kitchen, but into a vast, muddy field under a leaden sky. Barbed wire. Endless rows of ragged, emaciated figures moving like ghosts. The stench hit her first—a putrid miasma of human waste, decay, and woodsmoke that was so sharp she gagged, her empty stomach convulsing.
And then she saw him.
Papa.
He was at the quarry at Mauthausen. She knew the place instantly by the granite—the terrible, unforgiving stone that had built half of Vienna. He was hauling a massive block up the Stairs of Death, his back bent at an impossible angle. His clothes weren't clothes anymore; they were filthy rags that clung to a skeletal frame. His face, once round and cheerful, was a death mask. Hollow eyes. sunken cheeks.
He stumbled. The stone wavered. A guard's baton came down on his shoulder with a crack she felt in her own bones.
He didn't cry out. He didn't have the breath for it. He absorbed the blow, his body shuddering, and heaved the stone forward another inch. The sheer, soul-crushing weight wasn't just physical. It was the weight of a nation that had turned on its own.
She tried to push further. Mama? Leo?
The vision fractured. A barracks, overcrowded, reeking of typhus and unwashed bodies. A pile of gold teeth on a table. A mountain of shoes—small shoes, children's shoes, women's heels—all of them grey with dust.
The stranger's eyes held her, trapping Charlie in that silent scream.
Then the ground shook.
The muddy field, the faces, the sky—they shattered as the floor beneath her bucked, a physical force that hit her knees and teeth and skull all at once.
Charlie gasped, snapping back to the cold concrete of her cell. It wasn't a memory; it was happening now. A low, resonant hum drilled up through the floor, a frequency so deep it made her teeth ache. The air in the cell grew heavy, charged with static.
It built slowly, a rising crescendo of power that made the darkness around her feel charged, electric. She could almost see it, a blue-white light blooming in her mind's eye, though the cell remained pitch black. It was coming from below. Deep below. From the heart of this terrible place.
Nausea buckled her knees, sudden and violent, nearly as strong as what her vision had brought on. Her head swam, the world tilting on its axis. And then, a flash—not a vision of the past, but a jolt of pure sensation from the present.
Pain. A scream, choked off before it could begin. A body arched against restraints, every muscle locked in agony. The taste of copper flooded her mouth. The scent of ozone and scorched flesh.
Bucky.
The connection was instantaneous and brutal. She felt the energy coursing through him, a foreign, violent power that was tearing him apart and remaking him cell by cell. It was a burning voltage in his veins, a pressure behind his eyes that threatened to shatter his skull. His thoughts were a frantic, animal scramble of survival, a single, repeating litany: breathe, hold on, don't scream, breathe—
—Charlie gasped, her forehead pressed against the cold concrete floor. The residual echo of his agony throbbed through her, a phantom pain in her own nerves, her own bones. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. She could still taste the ozone, the burnt flesh at the back of her throat.
The deep, resonant hum from below had faded, leaving behind a ringing silence that was worse than the noise. She knew that sound now. It was the same frequency that vibrated through the walls during Zola's more invasive procedures. It was the sound of the machine. The sound of the thing that was changing Bucky.
She had felt his defiance, the fierce, stubborn core of him that refused to break even as the energy tore through him. It was a raw, terrifying strength. And beneath it, a flicker of something else. A desperate, wordless call. Not for help. For recognition. For someone to know what was happening to him. For someone to witness it.
He knows I'm here. The realization was a cold knife in her gut. He might not understand how, he might not even believe it was real, but on some primal level, he had felt her presence in that moment of shared agony.
She pushed herself up, her body trembling with exhaustion and the lingering aftershocks of the shared pain. She leaned her back against the cold wall, drawing her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around them, resting her forehead on her knees. The darkness was absolute, but she closed her eyes anyway.
She focused on that flicker of awareness, that fragile thread of connection. She couldn't reach him, not physically. She couldn't stop what they were doing to him. But she could be there, in the only way she knew how. She could bear witness.
Her breathing slowed, matching the faint, shallow rhythm she had felt from him in that single, excruciating moment. In. Out. Steady. She poured every ounce of her will into the thought, a silent message sent along that impossible, electric thread. You are not alone. It was a frail defense against the machinery and the men who wielded it, a whisper against a storm. But it was all she had to give.
The phantom pain in her own body began to recede, replaced by a deep, aching cold that had nothing to do with the temperature of the cell. It was the cold of dread, of helplessness. But beneath it, a new resolve hardened, fragile as ice. They were connected now, bound by something Zola could not measure or control.
She stayed like that for a long time, a silent witness in the dark, her consciousness holding the thread of his suffering, alone in the roaring, electric void.
Summary of Charlie's POV: Charlie's in solitary confinement as Zola ordered. Full of despair at her circumstances, Charlie attempts to remote-view her family in order to try and find them. She's then forced to witness their suffering at the Mauthausen concentration camp, which only breaks her further, until she senses Bucky's own parallel torment and utilizes that to help hang on.
so as long as tumblr keeps this, here's the tumblr version of etiquette that was maintained when twitter's quote-retweets affected artist visibility/notes:
for art that someone has added reblog commentary to (or removed the caption from), reblog from the source
otherwise, avoid adding reblog comments to art (as this will affect the artist's notes/visibility)—utilize tags and replies to provide commentary (which artists will absolutely appreciate)
reblog comments are comments added to the body of a post, not the tags and not replies.
The reblog chain is one of the things that makes Tumblr unlike anywhere else. All the notes on reblogs are attributed to the original post, no matter which branch people actually liked or reblogged. We want to keep encouraging conversations, and give contributors the recognition they deserve.
Soon, you'll be able to like, reblog, or reply to any part of a reblog chain, and that note will go to that reblog's author. Each reblog will have its own counts, instead of one aggregated number from every version of the post. And yes, you’ll be able to like multiple posts in one chain.
If a reblog doesn't add anything, the love flows up to the last person in the chain who did. Your post doesn't lose notes just because people spread it quietly.
Past notes will stay on the original post — we're only changing what happens from here on out. Retroactively re-attributing all of them would be... a lot.
This is just the beginning. More changes are coming as we keep building this out – stay tuned!
It’s very clear that you all have strong feelings about Tumblr and about this change. We hear you. The passion people have for how Tumblr works is one of the things that makes this place special.
As this rolls out over the next few days and you explore it, we’ll keep reading your replies and reblogs, so please keep sharing your questions, concerns, and ideas.
Your creativity has always been the heart of Tumblr, whether you’re the original poster or adding something brilliant in the reblogs, and nothing about this change is meant to limit that.
If you’d like to talk directly beyond the comments, leave a reply and we’ll follow up with as many of you as we can. We want to work with you to make Tumblr better.
Tumblr is rolling out a new reblog/notes system that completely disregards creators. In their new system, they're taking a twitter-style approach where reblogs will have their own notes that DO NOT contribute to the original post's notes.
Because of this, creators will no longer be able to see an accurate display of likes/reblogs/etc. This is completely altering the way feedback and responses to works are going to be received on this website.
If you come across a fan work that you enjoy, please take the extra step to go to OPs original post, and leave your comment/like/reblog there. Or go one step further and send an ask to OP directly to tell them what you liked!
I really hope Tumblr staff reverses course and reverts to the original reblog system for the sake of the large base of creators who use this site to share their works, but until then, please be considerate and make sure the creators here see/feel the love.
I’ve never seen a single episode of the pitt but I do think that kind autistic woman should fuck the twitchy drug guy who has the eyes of an abandoned shelter dog
robby can lash out in self-hatred and be a misogynist at the same time. robby can be written to be purposefully hypocritical and incidentally misogynistic at the same time. robby can be suffering from ptsd and be a misogynist at the same time. “actually the point is he’s lashing out because he sees himself in samira and hates it” correct. AND he’s being misogynistic while he’s at it
The idea of that is worse than him being dead.
You try to imagine it—Bucky, somewhere cold and clinical, strapped to a table like the one Steve described. Bucky, with needles in his arms and electricity in his skull. Bucky, screaming until he forgot how to scream.
Pairings: 50s!Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier x fem. Reader
Warnings: Minors DNI; Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Depictions of Violence, (Light) Stalking, (Mild) Obsession, Medical Horror, Experimentation, Trauma oh my god SO much trauma, PTSD, Grief/Loss, Mourning, Loss of Identity, Mental Health Struggles
Additional Tags: No Y/N, American!Reader, Mom!Reader, 40s AU Divergence, 1950s, Post WW2, Steve Doesn't Get Ice'd, Marriage of Convenience, Not Actually Steve x Reader, You & Steve Both Love(d) Bucky :(, Girl Dad!Bucky + Girl Dad!Steve, Reader Is A(n Accidental) Bigamist, Winter Soldier Is Encountered Pre-TWS, One-Sided Stucky If You Squint?
Author's Note: ahhhh my writing muse tanked a little over the past week but we are pushing through 😌 with more delicious drama to sample on
All Fics Tag List: @herejustforbuckybarnes
my fic masterlist!
⋘ Previous Chapter | Masterpost | Next Chapter (soon!) ⋙
Chapter Twelve (2.4k) — A Fool's Hope
The Stranger
Those words are still ringing in your ears. Those damned, impossible words.
I think your husband may still be alive.
It is a fantasy you had stopped indulging in years ago. The beautiful dream that perhaps one day, Bucky would be on your doorstep. "Sorry I'm late, Stranger," he'd say with that horribly charming smile of his, and you'd burst into tears and hold him close and never let him go.
But that isn't reality. Reality is a name on a memorial wall and an empty grave plot in Arlington.
Until now.
Now, Peggy Carter is sitting across from you in the wreckage of your living room, telling you it may not be so impossible, after all. The foundation of the last decade, the grief you've carried, the peace you've built with Steve—it all collapses now.
"Steve." You finally manage to say, your voice thin and reedy. "I think I need a glass of water, please, if you could?"
He moves instantly, a blur of motion fuelled by a desperate need to act, to fix this, and disappears into the kitchen. You hear the clink of a glass and the rush of the tap. The domestic sounds are surreal, clashing violently with the seismic shift happening in your heart.
Peggy watches you, her expression a mixture of professional resolve and deep personal regret. "I am so sorry to bring this to your doorstep like this, Mrs. Rogers," she says quietly, and you can tell she means it. "But you needed to know. And we need your help, to confirm it."
Steve returns, holding the glass of water. His hand is trembling slightly as he passes it to you. You take it, the coolness of the glass a shock against your skin.
You take the smallest sip of it before you simply cradle it in your hands, grateful for the cold to keep you connected to reality. "Our help?" You repeat, faintly. The words feel alien. How could you possibly help with something like this?
Peggy nods, her gaze steady. "Right now, the theory is just that, a theory. Conjecture. But, if we're correct, and your daughter shares the same markers in her blood as our mystery assailant... it would be proof." She lets the implication hang in the air for a moment. "It would be proof that Jamie's father was there, alive, that night Chester died. It would confirm that Zola's work was not only successful but also heritable. It would give us a trail to follow. A way to understand what was done to Sergeant Barnes, and perhaps, a way to find him."
Steve makes a low, distressed sound in his throat. "Peggy, you can't be serious. You want to run tests on a ten-year-old girl? To use her as... as your evidence?"
"It wouldn't be invasive, Steve," Peggy assures him quickly, though her eyes betray the complexity of the request. "A simple blood draw, perhaps some x-rays. Howard could analyze it discreetly. No one outside of a very small, trusted circle would ever know. But the information it could provide us with is immeasurable."
You look from Peggy's determined face to Steve's horrified one. Your mind is still a whirlwind. Proof. Proof that Bucky might be alive. Proof that a part of him lives on in Jamie. But at what cost? The thought of a needle piercing your daughter's skin, of her blood being scrutinized in a laboratory, of drawing her further into this shadow war... It makes your stomach turn.
Yet, the alternative is to live with the unknown. To forever wonder if the man you loved was left to suffer in some hidden hell while you built a new life without him. The glass in your hands feels impossibly heavy.
You look at Steve, and you see the same internal war raging behind his eyes. The soldier in him understands the tactical necessity, the desperate need for any scrap of information. The father in him wants to slam the door and build a fortress around his little girl. His loyalty to Bucky is a presence in the room, demanding to be acknowledged.
"And if you find what you're looking for," you ask, your voice steadier than you feel. "What then? What happens to Jamie? Does she become a... a subject? A person of interest to S.H.I.E.L.D. for the rest of her life?" The thought of men in plain suits watching her from unmarked cars, not just today but forever, is a fresh kind of terror.
"No," Peggy says firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. "This would be for our eyes only. Howard and myself. The sole purpose is to confirm a hypothesis so we know what, and who, we are truly hunting. Your daughter's safety, and her right to a normal life, would be my highest priority. You have my word."
Her word. You've known Peggy Carter for years. You trust her integrity and her honour, in a way you would trust few others in her position. But you also know that organizations like S.H.I.E.L.D. have a way of consuming even the best intentions. Secrets have a weight that pulls everything toward them.
Your gaze drifts toward the staircase, toward the room where your daughter sleeps, blissfully unaware that her world has been irrevocably altered.
"But if it confirms it, you would be... you'd be hunting..." You can't string the words together, the horror of it lodging in your throat like a stone. The image of Bucky—your Bucky, with his easy grin and gentle hands—as a cold-blooded assassin is so violently at odds with the man you know that your mind recoils from it.
If this is all true, and he really has been the one bleeding in Chester Phillip's car... That means he's been the one to kill him. A man he'd served with. A man Steve respects. Why would your husband kill a man he'd once considered an ally?
"No. He's not a killer, Peggy. Not like that," Steve says, his voice raw with conviction. "Not the Bucky we knew. Not unless..." He trails off, unable or perhaps unwilling to voice the awful possibility.
"Not unless he wasn't himself," Peggy finishes for him, her voice quiet but firm. "That is the most likely scenario, given the evidence, Steve. As I said, the serum traces we found are highly unstable. It requires maintenance. If someone has held him all these years, if they've been... controlling him, conditioning him... then the man who killed Chester Phillips may not be the man you married." She lets the words land. "He may be a weapon they've pointed at their enemies, instead. There's a high chance his mind has been... altered. Possibly damaged."
The idea of that is worse than him being dead.
You try to imagine it—Bucky, somewhere cold and clinical, strapped to a table like the one Steve described. Bucky, with needles in his arms and electricity in his skull. Bucky, screaming until he forgot how to scream.
Bucky, forgetting your name.
Bucky, forgetting himself.
A low, wounded sound escapes you before you can stop it, a sound between a sob and a retch. Your hands are shaking so badly that water sloshes over the rim of the glass, cold against your fingers. You press what remains to your forehead, the condensation a shock that does nothing to steady you, because how can anything steady you when the ground itself has turned to quicksand?
Ten years. Ten years of grief, of learning to carry the weight of his absence like a second heartbeat. Ten years of writing letters to a ghost, of watching his daughter grow into his image. You had mourned him. You had buried him in your heart and built a life on his grave.
And all that time—all that time—he might have been alive. Suffering. Hollowed out and filled with another purpose. Your Bucky, who you'd held in your arms the night before he was due to return to the front as he promised he'd come home—that man, remade into a monster.
This must be a nightmare. Only it's very much reality.
"The blood test," you finally manage to whisper, your eyes still closed. "If we agree... when would you need to do it?"
"The sooner, the better. Every hour we waste is another we give to whoever is behind this," Peggy affirms, her tone shifting back to the crisp efficiency of a field commander. "Stark has a private laboratory in Manhattan. He could perform the blood draw there, and provide immediate results. We could go tonight."
Steve stands up abruptly, pacing a short, tense path in front of the fireplace. The floorboards creak under his weight. "Tonight? Peggy, we can't just wake her up and drag her into the city! She's already terrified. She thinks she's in trouble for breaking a window." He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture full of frustrated helplessness. "How do we explain this to her?"
"You don't," Peggy says softly. "Not the truth. Not yet. A small fib. A check-up because of the accident. A precaution." She looks at you, her eyes asking for understanding, for complicity in this necessary deception. "Children are more resilient than we give them credit for. And the less she knows, the safer she is."
The thought of lying to Jamie, of subjecting her to a medical procedure under false pretences, makes your stomach churn. But the alternative—waiting, wondering, while the ghost of the man you loved is potentially being used as a pawn in some shadow war—is its own form of torture. The cold glass in your hand is now slick with condensation.
You look at Steve, his broad back turned to you as he stares into the empty fireplace. You see the weight of command on him, the burden of a secret he has carried for a decade, and the fierce, protective love he has for the little girl sleeping upstairs. The decision, you realize, cannot be his alone. This tangled web is as much yours as it is his. You take a slow, shaky breath, the sound loud in the quiet room.
"Peggy," you whisper. "Could you give Steve and I a moment to... to speak, please? Alone."
Peggy's expression softens with immediate understanding. "Of course." She rises gracefully from the armchair, picking up her handbag. "I'll wait in the car. Take all the time you need." She doesn't offer any more platitudes or reassurances. She simply gives you a final, respectful nod and lets herself out, the click of the front door a quiet, definitive sound.
Steve doesn't turn around. He remains facing the fireplace, his shoulders slumped, a statue of guilt and grief. You set the glass of water down on the side table, the click of crystal on wood unnaturally loud.
Standing, you walk over to him, stopping a few feet away. The sheet covering up your shattered bay window is a stark reminder of the impossible reality you now inhabit. You can see the tension coiled in every line of his body.
"Steve," you whisper. "Look at me, please."
He turns slowly, and the raw anguish in his eyes is almost too much to bear. He looks like a man who has just been handed a verdict he knew was coming but prayed to avoid. "I'm so sorry," he breathes, the words choked. "I should have... I should have looked harder. I should have never let them declare him—"
"—no. Stop that," you interrupt, your own voice trembling. "That's not what this is about. Not right now." You take a step closer, forcing him to meet your gaze. "This is about our daughter, Steve."
He flinches, looking away, but his eyes lock with yours. The guilt is still there, a deep, dark pool, but now it's joined by a flicker of defensive fear. "I know that," he says, his voice rough. "Do you think I don't know that? I would never let anything happen to her. You know I wouldn't."
"I know," you say, your voice softening despite the storm inside you. You reach out, placing a hand on his arm. The muscle is rigid beneath his shirt. "But this... this changes everything. If we do this, if we let Howard take her blood, we're pulling her into a world she should never have to know. We're making her a part of this... this secret."
"And if we don't," he counters, his gaze intense. "Then we're turning our backs on the chance that Bucky really is out there. That he's alive and suffering. That he needs our help." He shakes his head, a helpless, frustrated gesture. "How are we supposed to make that choice? How do I choose between protecting our little girl and saving my best friend? The man you loved? The man I..." His voice trails off.
You can practically feel Bucky's ghost in the room. Your heart fractures.
You look first toward the staircase, then back at Steve's tortured face. The memory of a crumpled baseball sits in the ruins of your record player. The memory of a dozen letters, filled with hope and love, is etched into your soul. There is no right answer. There is only a choice.
"Neither of us knows what happened to Jamie today, Steve," you say, finally, forcing some steel into your voice—a mother's protective wisdom. "If anything... Howard Stark may be able to answer that for us. Jamie is terrified of what she did. If this can help with that, then, we owe her that much, don't we? And if it... if it..." You can't say the words.
If it confirms that Bucky is still alive, then it gives her back her father, too.
The unspoken thought fills the space between you, fragile and dangerous as holding a lit match near gasoline. Steve's eyes search yours, and he sees the resolve hardening there. He sees the mother who would walk through fire for her child, even if that fire was the terrifying unknown of a scientific abomination. He sees the woman who, despite a decade of grief, has not entirely extinguished the flame for the man she married.
He lets out a long, shaky breath, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a grim, shared purpose. He covers your hand on his arm with his own, his grip firm. "Okay," he whispers, the word a surrender and a commitment. "Okay. We'll do it. For her. And for him."
You nod, a single, sharp movement. The decision is made. The path is set. There will be no more peaceful Saturday nights for a long time.
"Then we should wake her," you whisper, your voice quiet but steady. "We should tell her she's going on a little adventure with Aunt Peggy, and do it before I lose my nerve entirely..."
