Summertime
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader (but, really, Winter Soldier Bucky x Female Reader)
Summary: Three days ago, the Winter Soldier walked away from Hydra. They’ve just sent you to bring him back.
Word Count: 7,656 words (!!!)
Warnings: a heavy helping of angst, descriptions of injuries and pain, canon typical violence. The reader is an enhanced human with the ability to manipulate pain. (Let me know if you come across any others I’ve missed, I’ll gladly add them!)
*Reblogs of course are welcome, but please do not repost this story to any other websites without my permission!!*
A/N: This was written for @jbbuckybarnes‘s birthday writing challenge. Happy belated birthday, and thank you so much for reassuring me that it was okay to post this past the deadline! I didn’t mean for it to take this long, but the good news is, this is the first thing I’ve written and actually liked in about five or six years. So, yay? I really hope you and everyone else who reads it enjoys it!
P.S: my prompts are bolded, the not too shabby moodboard was made by me, and the title of the fic and lyrics within said moodboard are courtesy of My Chemical Romance’s ‘Summertime.’ Oh, and, the totally awesome text divider seen just below (and several times throughout the fic) was created by @writeyourmindaway (thank you)!
EDITED ON 5/24/2021 - no major changes, only a change in spelling for two of the characters' names.
“You ever think of where you’d go if you got out of here?” you’d asked the Soldier once, the two of you hunkered down in a safe house somewhere in Alaska. It’s been so long since then that you can’t even remember what mission had brought you there - or maybe you should say, so much has happened since then that you can’t remember.
He didn’t answer your question. He couldn’t. His programming limited his dialogue to giving orders to those ranked below him and answering the questions of those ranked higher. You’d been able to see his answer in his eyes, though, sitting there on the opposite side of the hallway from him, your faces illuminated by an oil lamp he’d found while sweeping the basement for any threats.
They had narrowed slightly, his way of wordlessly saying, ‘No.’
No, because he never thought he would ever escape from Hydra; and neither did you, for that matter. But it was nice to think about, especially back then. Freedom.
“I can remember,” you’d said slowly, not missing the faint look of surprise that crossed his usually stoic face at the words. You shouldn’t be able to remember anything that occurred before they wiped you the first time. But you remember this vividly, too vividly for it to be a mere fragment of your imagination.
“I can remember,” you’d started again, “this place my parents and I used to go to along the Blue Ridge Parkway.”
And then you’d told him about it. How after visiting a few tourist attractions you’d park the car at a lookout spot and stare out over the miles and miles of autumn colored trees in the valleys below, untouched by man aside from the randomly placed house. Far away from where you stood, blue tinted mountains pierced the overcast sky - and it was beautiful.
He’d listened to every word you’d spoken intently, his gaze never straying from your face as you reminisced on happier times. And when you’d finished, he’d looked sad. You could feel the longing in his chest within your own, and see a sparkle in his stormy blue eyes that seemed to say, ‘I would take you there, if I could.’
And he has, hasn’t he?
Here you are, standing at the very same lookout you’d told him about that night. It’s warmer than you remember, greener, seeing as it’s summertime - but it’s no less beautiful. If you squint you can see ghosts of the past; two figures standing against the most breathtaking of backdrops, smiling with their arms around one another as you took their picture.
You miss them.
Your parents.
You wish you could remember more about them.
About yourself.
Your old life.
“Empat.”
His voice startles you, but not because you didn’t know he was there. You’d felt his presence step within the reach of your powers almost twenty minutes ago; had known it was him because you know his aches and pains as well as you know your own. The phantom pain where his left arm used to be, the carpal tunnel syndrome in his right wrist and hand from years of holding a gun, and all the other wear and tear seventy years of assassination work has put on his still visibly young body. New to the roster, though, is the break in his right forearm - no doubt an injury gained during his fight in D.C. three days ago. A fight you’d been sidelined for, but should have been battling alongside him.
If you had been, that break wouldn’t be there. You’re certain of that.
You could only do so much with the amount of distance between you, but because you care, because you wanted him to know that you knew he was there, you’d cast your healing warmth over the fracture, numbing it until you could touch him and heal it completely. As thanks, he’d given you this time with your memories. Time before the inevitable had to happen.
But time is up now, and he’s standing right behind you, his voice startling you not because it’s unexpected but because he’s never been able to call you anything, let alone the name Hydra had given you. Empat, meaning Empath. His programming simply didn’t allow for it. To hear his voice say it now - after months and years of knowing each other, fighting alongside each other, nearly dying for each other - well, it’s quite a shock to the system.
Three days, you think. It’s only been three days since he walked away from the Triskelion wreckage, walked away from Hydra, and already he’s regained the ability to speak autonomously. And here you are, sent here to drag him back to the very same people who stripped him of his ability to do so in the first place.
You, because they know that in spite of their best efforts to keep him as emotionless and empty as possible, he feels something for you. Because if it’s you asking him to, he might come back willingly, without a fight. Because if it comes to a fight he’ll hesitate before killing you, and give you the opening you need to-
“Empat,” he says again, interrupting your internal ramblings. The sound of it threatens to bring tears to your eyes.
You don’t want to do this.
But you have no other choice.
“Hi, Soldier,” you greet him gently, and he takes that as his cue to move to stand at your side. He places himself on your left and it’s such a familiar position: you and the Soldier shoulder to shoulder, against the world. Normally it would bring you comfort; but today, it just makes you sad.
As if he can sense it - which he probably can; he has a knack for reading people - the Soldier brushes the back of his hand against the back of yours in a silent offer of comfort. You turn your wrist and intertwine your fingers with his without a second thought, and together you gaze out over the mountain range, silence hanging thick in the air between you for what feels like a lifetime.
And then, “Is it what you remember?”
So you were right. The red star on the tracking device had stopped in this town with a familiar name yesterday not by coincidence, but on purpose. He’d traveled west, deep into the peaks and valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountain range just so he could bring you here, to the location of your only remaining memory.
It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for you - that you can remember, at least - and, God, do you want to cry.
“Yes,” your voice and your smile is strained, “Thank you.”
He squeezes your hand tighter in response, causing a bolt of pain to shoot up towards his shoulder and down to the tips of his fingers - but he shows no signs of feeling it when you glance in his direction. He was trained to suffer in silence; if you weren’t, well, you, you wouldn’t have the slightest clue that he was in any pain at all.
“Your arm?” you inquire, turning your head to face him at the same moment he turns to face you. It’s only then that you realize what he’s wearing: a black baseball cap pulled down over his brunette tresses, a dark denim jacket over a black t-shirt, blue jeans and his usual pair of boots. The shoes are the only part of his attire that you recognize, but you have to admit, this casual look he’s got going on…
You like it.
“Steve,” he tells you, as if you know who Steve is. You raise your brows. “The guy on the bridge,” he amends. “Captain...Captain America.”
Right. The target Hydra had sent the Soldier to kill not once, but twice - an anomaly, as he usually gets the job done on the first try. You’d been as shocked as your superiors when he came back from the fight on the bridge to report the mission as failed - but more so due to the foul mix of emotions churning within him than the failed mission itself.
It was astonishing to see him in such anguish so openly; to feel the full force of his normally repressed guilt, anger and sadness. You’ve gotten glimpses of it in the past, during those precious few minutes between him being awoken and being wiped. But only one other time had you seen him so distraught, which could only mean one thing.
The target - this Steve, whoever he is - had somehow broken through decades of wipings and programming to free the man Hydra had tried so hard to keep contained, and every sour emotion he’s felt while locked in his cage - though only for a moment before Alexander Pierce ordered him to be shoved behind the bars again.
It’s not easily done; liberating the man that lingers beneath the surface of the Soldier.
You would know.
You’ve done it before.
“You knew him,” you say simply, recalling the trembling words he’d spoken that day. Words that, when combined with the look on his face and what had happened after he’d uttered them, had shattered your already broken heart into even smaller shards.
“But I knew him.”
“I don’t know,” the Soldier replies eventually, and he’s lying - to you and himself.
But that’s okay.
You assure him as much with a small smile.
“Here,” you change the subject, “let me…” you turn your body towards him and bring your right hand up to cup the back of his, which still clings to your left one, as he turns to face you as well. You close your eyes and focus on the break, casting your warmth over it and holding it steady as it guides his bones back into place. As it does, your body takes his pain and converts it into ammunition, adding it to what’s already been piled high within you thanks to the metal choker around your neck.
Hydra’s scientists had designed it especially for you; a necklace that would, whenever your handlers deemed it necessary, electrically shock you continuously so you would have to be constantly taking your own pain away. Whenever you use your healing abilities - regardless of whether you’re using them on yourself or someone else - your body absorbs the pain and stores it within until you either unleash it on someone or your handlers shut the necklace off and the power coursing through your veins is allowed to dwindle away on its own.
It flows through you now, but you’re so used to the uncomfortable prickling feeling that accompanies it at this point that you hardly even notice it’s there anymore.
How sad that is.
“Thank you,” the Soldier says after you’ve finished healing him and open your eyes again. That’s another first: the Soldier thanking you aloud instead of with his eyes and soft, secret touches. If it weren’t for the current circumstances, it would have brought you joy.
“Don’t thank me,” you beg with a rapid shake of your head. “Not when you know what I’ve been sent here to do.”
“Empat, it’s okay-”
“No,” you interject harshly, dropping his hand and retreating a few steps backwards. “It’s not okay, Soldier. It’s not. Because you knew,” your smile is sardonic as you point a finger in his direction. “You knew they’d send someone - that they’d send me - after you. You knew what they’d make me do to bring you back. So why, Soldier? Why didn’t you cut the tracker out? You could have been free,” your voice cracks on the last word, and you feel his chest ache in response.
He holds your gaze for a moment longer before dropping his focus to the grass between his boots. You stand there, blinking tears from your eyes and waiting for him to say something - anything - in defense of himself, but he doesn’t say a word.
He’s maddeningly silent.
“Why would you do this?” you demand again, your voice frail in spite of the anger rising inside of you. The Soldier is slow to raise his gaze back to yours, and even slower to give you an answer.
“‘Cause I wanted to.”
It hits you like a punch from his left fist, and you find yourself unable to speak.
He... He wanted this? He wanted you to be sent after him? To potentially have to fight him, to have to drag him back to the people you’ve always told him you wished you could help him escape from?
“Listen,” he urges, seeing the look of hurt and betrayal that’s overtaken your features. He’s lifted his hands in a pacifying gesture, and his left one catches your attention, as it’s donning a black winter glove. Where did he even find one of those this time of year? “I did it because I didn’t know how else to find you. I went back to the bank after...after the fight, and everyone was already gone. You were gone, and I had no way of knowing where you were but I knew that if I left the tracker in, it wouldn’t be long before they sent you after me. It...It was the only way I had to be able to see you again,” he finishes with a sad, tearful smile, the same one he’d given Alexander Pierce that night after his first encounter with Steve.
It pulls at your heart now just as it did then, but at the same time -
“You could have been free,” you echo your earlier words, sounding every bit as devastated as you feel. Your tears make the Soldier a blur as he steps closer to you, raising his hands to tentatively cup the sides of your face. You blink and a pair of them slip down your cheeks only to be quickly smeared away by his thumbs, gloved metal and bare flesh alike.
“I don’t want to be free if you’re not free with me,” he tells you softly, and you see those words for what they are: a testament of his love for you. It’s the first time he’s been able to voice such a thing, and you want to find joy or at the very least solace in it. Truly, you do. But right now, with the situation at hand, knowing he’s tossed away the only chance at liberation he’s had in seven decades all because he didn’t want to leave you behind, you can’t.
You just feel guilty. So incredibly, debilitatingly guilty.
“I’ll never be free of them,” you state grimly, pulling out of his hold and putting some distance between you. “As long as this necklace is around my neck, I’m stuck. They’ll ramp it up as soon as I get too far for their likings and kill me. But you - you had a chance. And you threw it away because of me,” you practically choke out the last word. You pause for a few moments to collect yourself before continuing to speak, your eyes fluttering shut to send another pair of tears down your cheeks.
“I’m begging you, Soldier. If you love me, cut the tracker out and leave. I’ll tell them you beat me unconscious before I could move to apprehend you, or… I don’t know. Something. Just please don’t make me take you back there. Don’t make me the reason you go back there, I…” your throat gets too tight for you to speak any further, so you open your eyes and try to communicate with him through them, as he used to you.
I won’t be able to live with myself if you do.
He lets your unspoken words hang between you for exactly seventeen shaking breaths, and when he goes to speak, he looks apologetic, telling you he’s not going to change his mind even before he confirms it aloud.
“You know I never get to choose what I want for myself,” he says, a pleading tone to his voice. His eyes are equally as imploring as they stare into yours, trying to get you to see just how much he needs you to do this for him. “I want this, Empat. I do. So, please, for once in my life - let me have what I want.”
…How are you supposed to say no to that?
The answer is simple:
You don’t.
“Alright,” you sound as defeated as you feel. “Alright.”
The corners of his lips twitch upwards, but the glossiness of his eyes conveys what you feel twisting inside of him. The fear. The sadness. The anger.
He reaches out, asking for your hands, and you unfold your arms to give them to him, biting back a sob as he intertwines his fingers through yours.
“Whatever you have to do,” he says slowly, “Do it.”
You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale deeply to gather what little strength and courage you have left in you; then, you breath out a single word:
“Sputnik.”
A moment later, the Soldier collapses at your feet.
…
...
You couldn’t do it.
You’d told him you would, and had fully intended on honoring his wishes - but it was one hour into the three hour drive back to the safe house your handlers were waiting for you within that you realized you just couldn’t. You couldn’t take him back to the people who have been holding him hostage for over seventy years, doom him to another who knows how many more years of brainwashing and torture. You couldn’t, and you wouldn’t.
So you turned the car around, much to the displeasure of your handlers. The wattage of your necklace shot up almost immediately after you’d made the u-turn, and you’d almost driven into the guard rails due to the sudden onslaught of pain. You’d quickly smothered it, though, and righted the vehicle on the road, backtracking until you reached the abandoned house you’d spotted only a few minutes prior in the drive.
It had caught your eye because of its reminiscence of that safe house back in Alaska. It’s a small and barely standing home made of deteriorating wood, its front door hanging by a single hinge. Upon entering it you’d found it had the same damp, moldy atmosphere, and a similar, familiar layout - a ground level with two bedrooms and a bathroom, a living room and kitchen area, and a basement. Its windows were shattered, parts of the wood flooring were either caved in or missing altogether, and you’d even found an oil lamp while you were scoping out the basement.
Talk about déjà vu.
As for getting the Soldier into the house, it was as much of a struggle as it’d been to get him into the car your handlers had sent you out in. Somehow, though, you’d managed, and had tied him to a weathered dining chair that had squeakily threatened to collapse under his weight when you’d dropped him into it.
What had happened after that is nothing more than a blur of blood and tears, right up until you’d collapsed into an identical chair in front of a boarded up window, staring as if you could see right through the planks to whatever lies beyond.
You don’t know how much time has passed since then, but you haven’t moved since you’d sat down. You’ve barely even breathed.
There’s a pounding in your head from previously shed tears and there’s dried blood on your hands, your clothes. You’re shaking so badly you don’t know how you haven’t vibrated right off of the chair and into a clump on the floor.
He hasn’t woken up yet. You’re starting to worry he may never - that there’s another code word that has to be used to wake the Soldier after he’s been shut down by ‘sputnik.’
Wouldn’t that be just your luck? To do everything that you’ve done in the time since he’s been unconscious just for it all to be futile because-
A soft groan sounds from behind you, and you hold your breath.
Did you actually hear that? Or did you-
“Empat?” he rasps, a confused lilt to his voice. You almost start crying again at the sound of it.
He’s awake.
Everything you’ve done isn’t for nothing, after all.
“I’m here,” you get to your feet and move towards him slowly. Taking in his disoriented expression, you ask, “How do you feel?”
You being you, of course, you already know how he’s feeling; he’s got a headache similar to your own and he’s discombobulated, stiff and sore. Still, you ask him - not only because it’s nice to do so but because you want to hear it out of his own mouth.
However, instead of answering your question, he raises one of his own. “Why are you covered in blood?”
You stop right in front of him, shaking your head.
“It’s not mine,” is all you offer, reaching forward to brush his hair out of his face since he can’t do it for himself. You then trail your fingers down the side of his cheek, watching as his eyes flutter shut briefly in response to the gentle touch before he seemingly forces them open again, assessing you with his stormy blues.
“Where are we?” he asks. You freeze in your movement.
“Hour away from where we were,” you supply. He ponders that for a few moments, tearing his eyes from you to take in what he can of the room before meeting your gaze again.
“Are they coming to extract us?”
You drop your gaze.
“Empat,” his tone is low; dangerous - the closest it’s been to the one he uses while giving orders on missions this entire time. You turn away from him and clasp your trembling hands together.
Every so often your handlers have been knocking up the voltage of your necklace to tell you to hurry up and get you and the Soldier back to the safe house. You’ve been having to use more and more of your powers to keep yourself from feeling it, from being harmed by it, and it’s drained you more than you’re willing to admit.
You don’t know how much longer you can fight against it. You need to get moving before they ramp it up beyond the reach of your powers and kill you, which they’d very clearly told you they would if you failed them.
You’ve only hung around this long waiting for the Soldier to wake up to make sure that he would wake up; you didn’t want to leave him behind without knowing for a fact that he was going to be okay.
But he’s awake now, and really there’s no reason for you to be here anymore... Yet, you can’t bring yourself to move any further away.
“Empat,” the Soldier calls for you again, this time more desperate. “What did you do?”
You close your eyes.
He’s going to be so upset with you over this.
But perhaps that will make it easier for him to move on.
“I cut the tracker out,” you inform him, hearing him inhale sharply in response. “I…Understand why you didn’t do it yourself. I’d do the same thing, to see you one last time - but you know that if our roles were reversed you would refuse to take me back to them. So you shouldn’t expect me to,” you face him again, letting him see the tears that started running down your cheeks as you were speaking.
He looks as devastated as you feel.
Biting back a sob, you walk back up to him and cup the sides of his face, as he had yours earlier, and lean down to rest your forehead against his. You remain in that position for only a moment before pulling away enough to peer into his tear-filled eyes.
“I’m sorry I have to be another person keeping you from what you want,” you brush your thumbs over his cheekbones, “but I can’t do this to you. You’ve been with them so much longer than I have, Soldier; you’ve been through so much - too much. You deserve to be free, to live. And you’ve got a chance,” you smile at him sadly. “I can’t take that from you.”
Those words appear to be what takes him over the edge, as with his next blink, the Soldier’s tears spill over. They run down his stubble covered cheeks and quickly find themselves wiped away by your waiting thumbs.
“They’ll kill you if you show up without me,” he chokes out. And he’s right. You know he is. But,
“You would do it for me.”
You have him there, it seems - because he has nothing to say to contradict your statement. You nod, for no particular reason, and press your lips to his forehead; your silent I love you, your wordless goodbye.
You pull away from him with the intentions of leaving, but before you can even straighten your spine he says, “Y/N.”
You freeze.
That name…
You pull further back and meet his gaze.
“What?”
“Y/N,” he says again. “That’s your name. Your real name.”
Your breathing hitches.
You don’t know how, but you know he’s right. You can feel it.
“How-”
“You told me,” he answers your unfinished question. “When we first met, before they wiped you that first time - no one told you I couldn’t talk and you - you introduced yourself to me. You were terrified of me, I could tell - but you still stuck your hand out and told me your name. I couldn’t,” he pauses to gather himself, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I couldn’t have told you my name even if I could have remembered it, but I put my hand in yours, and you smiled at me. Do you know how long it’d been since someone had smiled at me? Without any malice behind it?” he leans forward against his binds, baring his wet eyes into yours.
You don’t say anything. You’re completely and utterly speechless, staring at him with wide eyes and a trembling lower lip. You drop your hands from his face and take a step back, absorbing every single word he has to to tell you.
“They wipe me to make me forget, but I never forgot that moment, Y/N, no matter how many times they did it. I never forgot your name even though my own was long gone.” The Soldier presses on, “I don’t know why, but I feel like it was for a reason. Like I was supposed to be the one to remind you what it was - to help you remember who you were. But I can’t do that if you’re...If you…”
He doesn’t finish, but it’s not hard for you to figure out what he was going to say.
I can’t do that if you’re dead.
“I don’t know what you think I can do,” you force the words out around the lump in your throat, “I die if I go back without you. They’ll kill me if I stay with you - either way, I’m dead. There’s nothing we can do-”
“Yes there is,” he insists, desperate. “We can go there - we can fight them-”
“And they’ll kill me as soon as they realize what’s happening,” you dismiss the suggestion, “right in front of you. I don’t… Want you to have to watch me die, Soldier. I don’t want you to have to carry that around with you for the rest of your life - can’t you understand that?”
“Untie me then. Let me try and get that thing off of you-”
“What?!” you take a step back as if he’s struck you. “Are you insane?! You’ll get electrocuted if you touch it!”
“Not if you protect me from it,” he counteracts. You shake your head and go to protest against the idea, but he starts talking again before you can. “Don’t you remember the day you realized what you could do? What you could really do?”
Of course you do. That’s another memory Hydra couldn’t rip away from you no matter how hard they tried: the day you found out the true extent of what powers Loki’s scepter had bestowed upon you. The day that you were promoted from the Winter Soldier’s nurse to his partner in crime - literally.
Seeing the look of recognition in your eyes, the Soldier latches onto it. “You can do it again. I know you can.”
“Your arm,” you point out. “It’ll conduct the electricity - send it straight towards your heart. And I don’t know if what I can do is enough to protect you from the damage that would cause.”
His face falls.
Clearly, he hadn’t thought of that.
He parts his lips to make another argument but before he can get a single word out the wattage of your necklace suddenly increases again, making you cry out and fall to your knees. You just barely manage to smother the pain this time; if they turn it up any higher, you’re not sure you’ll be able to.
“I knew you couldn’t do it,” a voice taunts in Russian from somewhere behind you. Recognizing it, you lift a hand in the general direction it came from and feel the power coursing through your veins gather in the palm of your hand before a cloud of black smoke erupts from it. The man lets out a scream of pure agony a moment later before hitting the weathered floorboards, dead. You look over your shoulder and take in the lifeless form of the handler before turning back to the Soldier, wide eyed.
“Untie me now,” he orders, and you know better than to argue with him.
As Hydra’s motto claims, ‘Cut off one head, two more will take its place.’
You’re gonna need his help.
So you scramble to your feet and round the chair he’s tied to, unsheathing the knife strapped to your thigh. It’s not easy to cut through the rope, which had been specially designed to restrain the Soldier, but it’s not impossible, either. You have him free before long and he puts his hand out for the blade, which you hand over without even thinking just in time for two more figures to step through the doorway.
“Sput-” the handler who had been just a syllable away from shutting down the Soldier again gets cut off by the knife you’d given him embedding itself in his chest. A cloud of black smoke engulfs him a moment later and he chokes on it for a moment before collapsing just as the first had.
Next, gun shots ring out. If any bullets hit you, you don’t feel them - all you can feel is the power in your shaking hands, the slight ease of its pressure as more of it is released onto the third Hydra agent. She does little more than gasp before her eyes roll back in her head and she lands on top of her comrade.
The Soldier surges forward, scavenging the closest body for any weapons. He finds a gun just in time to get a head shot on a fourth agent.
“We need to get out of here,” he states the obvious, taking a shot at a fifth one.
He doesn’t miss.
You clench and unclench your hands, the power surging within them making it impossible for you not to fidget. “My tracker’s still in, they’ll just follow us,” you remind him, “and the necklace-”
“Search them for the remote,” he meets your eyes briefly over his shoulder. “Someone here has to have it.”
You nod and kneel beside the body he’d taken the gun from. You rummage through the handler’s pockets, coming up short on finding the device that would free you from the necklace. From Hydra.
It’s unreal to you that this is even happening right now; you never thought you would ever have even a chance at freedom, but now -
As if it’s punishing you for even thinking about escaping, the wattage of your necklace suddenly spikes. And as you’d predicted, this time you can’t completely cover the pain it’s inflicting on you - it’s too strong, hurts too much.
You scream and fall sideways, clawing futilely at the electrified metal around your neck. For several long, agonizing moments, all there is is pain, pain, pain - and then, suddenly, it’s gone.
You think at first you’re dead; in fact, you’re certain of it. But then a hand taps on your cheek and you open your eyes - when had you even closed them? - and see the Soldier’s face hovering over your own. It melts with relief and he says something to you, but you can’t hear whatever it is over the ringing in your ears.
You’d tell him that, if you weren’t so dazed.
After some time the Soldier gives up on getting a response out of you and helps you to sit up, watching you closely afterwards, presumably looking for any signs that you’re going to pass out. You don’t, though your head does swim, and find yourself blinking rapidly trying to get your eyes to focus. They land on the doorway when they do, where a familiar man stands holding a familiar object, the sight enough to make your blood run cold.
Having noticed the shift in your demeanor, the Soldier follows your line of sight, tensing just as you had when he realizes what you’re looking at.
The ringing in your ears fades away just in time for Talon, the highest ranking of the handlers, to speak.
“Drop the gun, Soldat,” he commands, shaking the hand holding the remote to your necklace pointedly. “Or watch your precious little empath die.”
The Soldier swallows thickly. Then, he obeys, the gun clattering onto the wood floor just beyond your reach.
“As I thought,” Talon muses, his smile anything but friendly as he approaches you and the Soldier at a slow pace. His eyes are fixated on the latter, but his thumb hovering over the red button on the remote is enough of a deterrent to keep you from trying anything.
You don’t refrain from openly glaring at him, though.
“You’d do anything to keep her safe, hm?” Talon inquires coolly, his lips falling into their natural frown. “First chance at freedom in almost seventy years... And you toss it away for a girl you’ve known for two,” he holds up two fingers on his free hand for emphasis, and you flinch. Even though they’re the same words you've been telling yourself this entire time, they somehow sound even worse coming from someone else’s mouth.
The handler doesn't show it outwardly, but he notices how his statement hits a nerve. You know this because, for a moment, his irritation gives way to amusement; he can tell you're feeling guilty, and he's enjoying it.
Bastard.
Talon comes to a stop a few feet away from where you and the Soldier are sat. His eyes, their irises the color of green peridot, flicker back and forth between the two of you a few times before he seethes, “She makes you weak.”
The Soldier tightens his arm around you, and you can feel the anxiety rising within him; the anger. You want to spare a glance in his direction but opt to keep your gaze fixated on Talon, afraid of what he might do if you were to be momentarily distracted.
“It’s pathetic,” the handler goes on, “and if we didn’t need her help to sort out the mess your failure-” he jabs an accusing finger at the Soldier “-created, I would have you kill her. Slowly and painfully, to punish you both.
"I should regardless, considering what she was about to do,” he moves his focus onto you, now. “You should count yourself very lucky, Empat, and pray that I still find you useful when all this is said and done.”
Your glare turns deadly at the threat. In response, Talon hits a button - not the red one - to make your necklace come to life, albeit on a much lower setting than it’d been on before.
It’s a warning more than anything, but it still hurts.
“Yes, you will both be punished harshly for your recent acts of disobedience - eventually,” Talon states, tossing the remote into the air and catching it, quite literally playing with your life. “There’s simply no time for it now, as we leave for Sokovia tonight, per von Strucker’s request. He’s made a call for all of his creations to return and help defend their birthplace,” he stuffs the hand holding the device into his pocket and seems to consider you before adding, “He’s very interested in seeing how your powers have developed since he’s last seen you, Empat.”
Unease claws its way down your spine at the words, and though you’re not sure why - you trust it. You may not consciously remember von Strucker, but there’s a girl locked away in your mind who does; who’s warning you that he’s no one you’ll want to see ever again.
You trust her.
Talon sighs exaggeratedly, having seemingly grown bored of this one-sided conversation he’s been having with the two of you.
“Get her up, Soldat; we must get going,” he commands. You feel your heart lurch, and finally tear your gaze from the handler to look at the man who’s yet to let you go.
There’s a look of calculation on his face; the one he bears whenever a mission goes wrong and he has to come up with a new plan on the spot. What could he possibly-
“My name,” the Soldier snarls through gritted teeth, glaring up at the other man with pure hatred swirling in his chest. “Is James, Buchanan, Barnes. Not Soldat, not Asset - James. Bucky.”
You gasp silently in response to what he’s just revealed, and place your hand over that of his that rests on your waist, squeezing it tightly. Right now is the most inappropriate of times to feel happy, but you are, because the Soldier, your Soldier, he has a name. Well, he’s always had one - but now he remembers it; now you know it. You know his name and you know your own - your first one, at least - and, wow. You have names. Real, genuine names and it feels so surreal, so right, even if you are currently standing on the verge of losing them again.
“I gave you an order, Soldat,” Talon emphasizes the title pointedly, and you whirl back onto him with a glare even more murderous than the first had been. “And I expect you to follow that order, or I’ll-”
In your peripheral vision, you see the Soldier - James, you remind yourself - pull out a gun and line up a shot with expert ease. You barely register the action before he’s pulling the trigger and an ear piercing bang echoes throughout the abandoned house.
The bullet hits its mark, of course - a fatal head shot.
Talon’s body falls towards the ground and when it makes impact, whether his hand was just carrying out his last request or your luck is just that bad and he happened to land on it, the red button on the remote gets pressed.
The wattage of your necklace spikes, and it’s the most excruciating and unbearable pain you’ve ever felt. Your lips part to scream but the cry doesn’t even get a chance to escape before you succumb to the pain being inflicted upon you, your world going dark.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
And then…
And then there’s light.
Not a heavenly, bright light, but a dim, golden glow.
You blink against it a few times, trying to focus your vision, all the while casting your healing warmth over the pain in your head. The world around you finally aligns and you realize that you’re in a car, sprawled across the back seat with your head lying on top of a rolled up denim jacket.
Your last few moments of consciousness return to you as the headache is successfully smothered to nothing, and immediately your hand shoots up to grasp at your neck - the action sending a jolt of pain through your arm.
Brows furrowing, you withdraw the limb and bring it to eye level, finding a bandage wrapped tightly just below your elbow. You bring your other hand up and pull the bandage down carefully, revealing a stitched up wound right where Hydra’s scientists had implanted a small tracking device beneath your skin seemingly so long ago.
The implications the sight brings forth make your heart stutter.
Slowly, almost afraid of what you’ll find, you lower your hand back towards your neck -
Finding nothing there.
And the fact that your necklace is gone is your second indication that something huge happened while you were unconscious, as the only time your handlers ever take it off of you is when you’re off mission and locked away in a cell. Gingerly, you rub at the scarred skin where it usually rests, putting the few pieces you’ve gathered so far together.
Your tracker has presumably been cut out, your necklace is gone, and both of those things could only mean-
You stop yourself short, realizing you’re getting ahead of yourself.
You can’t let yourself think that until you know for sure it’s true.
So without moving - because if it isn’t him, you’re gonna want the advantage of the person in the driver’s seat not knowing you’re awake - you close your eyes and reach out with your powers, studying the only other soul in the car. You take into account every familiar ache and pain in their body, the fragile hope within their chest, and you smile.
“Soldier?” you call, ignoring the pain in your arm as you push yourself up into a seated position. Startled, his icy blues snap towards the rear view mirror.
And then they melt.
“No,” he responds, a smile tainting his tone. “I’m Bucky.”
Disbelieving and overjoyed, a laugh bubbles up in your throat. He maneuvers the car to park it on the side of the rural road and you slide off of the back seat, leaning over the center console to look at his face. He turns to look at you, too, grinning - something you’ve never seen him do before.
He’s offered you slight tugs at the corners of his lips in moments where he was more ‘James’ than ‘Soldier,’ yes, but not ever this - this flashing of his teeth and crinkling at the edges of his eyes. Bathed in the golden glow of the rising sun and freedom, he’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen.
“Hi, Bucky,” you greet him breathlessly, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
“Hi, Y/N,” he returns, and the next thing you know you’re being pulled - squealing - from the back seat towards the front, and his arms are around you, holding you tight against him. In the cramped space of the car, the embrace is awkward and even on the verge of painful - what with all the levers and the steering wheel digging into you; but you don’t care. You just wrap your arms around him, too, and pull him impossibly closer, a different kind of tears filling your eyes as you bury your nose into his dark hair.
“I thought I lost you,” he heaves out the shaking words against your chest, trembling in your hold. There’s so many emotions twisting within him that it’s hard for you to decipher them from one another, but most prominent of all is his guilt; his overbearing, gut-wrenching guilt. It makes you realize, with a sinking heart, that not only had he thought you dead, he’d thought he’d been the one to kill you - inadvertently - by shooting Talon.
“I’m right here,” you murmur into his hair, pressing a kiss to it after. “It’s alright - we’re alright, Bucky. We’re free.”
At your words, he pulls back enough to meet your gaze, an almost mystified look on his tear-stained face. It’s the smallness of his voice as he repeats your last two words back to you that causes your own tears to spill over.
“We’re free.”
He almost sounds like he doesn’t really believe it, and you can understand that, as you hardly do yourself - but still, you try and reassure him, nodding quickly.
“Yeah, Bucky, we’re fr-”
Bucky presses his lips against yours, cutting you off.
Taken aback, you stiffen at first - but then you melt into him, one of your hands moving to cup the side of his face and pull him closer, the other sliding down to rest over his heart. It beats strongly against your palm, setting the pace for the kiss, the first the two of you have ever shared. And, oh, what a first kiss it is: gentle yet passionate, grounding but freeing all the same.
It warms you from the inside out and tingles beneath the surface of your skin in the most exhilarating of ways, making you feel so alive - reassuring you that you are, as it would be so easy for you to convince yourself that you’re not, since this is the closest to Heaven you’ve ever been.
If you could have it your way, it would never end; you would stay in this moment for the rest of your life, reveling in the feeling of Bucky’s lips moving against yours and his arms encasing you, the mix of positive emotions swirling in your respective chests. Your lungs however eventually betray you, and you have to part from him to catch your breath - but you don’t go too far. You only move to rest your forehead against his, a happier rendition of a moment lived not too long ago.
You stay like that, just basking in one another, for an eternity. And then he asks you, in a tone that tells you he’s open to anything you might suggest, “Where do you want to go?”
You smile as you open your eyes, meeting his waiting gaze.
“Anywhere,” you tell him simply. “As long as I’m with you.”
A/N: first and foremost, if you’re reading this, bless you for making it this far, and I really hope you liked this one-shot! I’d love to hear any thoughts you may have on it :).
I’ve been planning the story of Bucky and this specific reader in my head for months now, so to see them finally “come to life” is a pretty great feeling. I hope you guys love them as much as I do, because I’ll hopefully be sharing the journey that led them to this ‘epilogue’ with you soon 💜.
One last thing, I want to give a shout out to every single person who has given me words of encouragement and advice over the past few months as I’ve talked about picking up writing again. Especially @stop-obsessing-over-those-actors, whose reaction to just a snippet of this one-shot and constant support throughout the writing process pushed me to keep going even when I felt like giving up and dropping out of the challenge. I’m so sorry I kept you waiting to see what happened for so long! I hope the wait was worth it!
( @buckyreaderrecs and @stop-obsessing-over-those-actors, I did it you guys!! 💜)
