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WINTER'S TOUCH the winter soldier x female!reader [14.9k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: in the shadows of hydra’s control, the winter soldier secretly finds refuge in you. in the safe sanctuary that is your apartment, he allows himself to be fed, tended to, and held, while he silently guards the woman who anchors him. every touch, every whispered reassurance, is a rebellion against a cruel world that tries to erase his humanity, and a reminder that even a weapon bred for destruction can crave love and safety. — ⟢ WARNINGS: MDNI; non-canon; she/her pronouns for reader; civilian!reader; reader is pierce's personal assistant at shield (didn't know about hydra until she met the soldier); pre-established relationship; angst; self-loathing; wounds & blood; trauma; violence & punishments & complicated relationship with food (fuck hydra); one (1) very brief panic attack; bucky is called winter; bucky uses broken english & short sentences; protective!bucky; size difference (yes he’s beefy and tall); caregiving dynamics (no ageplay; reader takes care of him & he lets her be in charge); fluff; showering together; emotional vulnerability & intimacy.

A/N: this is such an important story for me and I’m really glad it got so much love and support when it was first posted on my other blog. there are some changes, because I realized some parts didn't really fit the situation. at the very end you'll find a brief explanation about why I removed the smut part. I know it "sells" more than angst/fluff, but I hope you’ll enjoy the story anyway 💛

His hands grab onto the frame of the bedroom window and his weight shifts, but the noise of boots landing on the floor never comes. Endless years of practice have trained him to move like a snake, and just like the strategic reptile, it’s impossible to hear him approaching, unless he wants you to. Blood never stains what it’s not supposed to, his work being too clean, spotless. Methodical. And then, he disappears in the quiet of the night, as if he had never been there in the first place.

This time, he arrives silently for an entirely different—and definitely purer—reason.

You are lying on your side, back to the window, knees slightly drawn in as if looking for comfort. The blanket has slipped down one of your shoulders, just enough for that naked patch of skin to be covered in goosebumps.

The window closes behind him with a soft click he barely allows, leaving outside everything that doesn’t belong here. The cold air, the damp stone, the hum of distant traffic that never quite reaches this street.

The echo of gunfire. An agonizing cry. The sharp, electric snap of orders obeyed too fast.

He perceives the change of air at once. Warm, still. It smells faintly of laundry soap and perfume still lingering from this morning. The aroma of something brewed hours ago and left to cool travels languidly from the open bedroom door. The Soldier feels warmth seeping deep into his bones, and he might not notice it, but his shoulders lower a fraction as he breathes in the familiar mix of scents that with time he has learned to associate with you. With home.

The lamp on the nightstand is off, but the city lights leak in through the glass, thin stripes of amber light crossing the wall and the duvet.

He stands there longer than necessary, allowing himself to just exist in the only place where his mind doesn’t split apart and time doesn’t blur. No shouted derisions, no hands on him that don’t ask first.

They never do.

He moves closer, slowly, but the floorboard creaks under his weight anyway. The sound is barely there, but it’s enough to make you stir in your sleep. When he reaches the side of the bed, your body heat touches him like a hand stopping him from falling into the void. He didn’t know it was possible for something so human to exist, completely different from the artificial warmth of the machines deliberately built to break minds.

One of your hands is tucked under the pillow, the other rests open on top of the sheet. Your breathing is steady, each inhale and exhale measured and unafraid.

Outside, a car passes, distant tires on wet pavement. Somewhere far below, a siren wails and fades, yet you don’t wake up.

Carefully, he lowers himself on his knees, mindful to not touch the covers. He studies your face like he’s afraid it might morph into something else if he looks away. Then, a trembling hand hesitantly reaches out before he can stop himself. Just fingers grazing bare, soft skin.

Your cheek fits beneath his touch in a way that makes his chest tighten, yet the sensation grounds him, pulls him fully into your world.

Then, your eyes open.

You startle awake with a sharp intake of air, but the fear never comes. Recognition settles in instead, relieved and immediate.

“Winter.” You exhale a whisper.

He pulls his hand back at once. “Sorry.” He immediately answers, the word rough and uneven. “I… woke you.”

You sit up, already reaching for him, your fingers brushing his cold wrist. “It’s okay,” your smile makes his stomach somersault. “You’re here.”

That’s enough—being here.

You swing your legs out of the sheets and rub sleep from your eyes before turning the lamp on your nightstand on. Your squinting eyes flick over him automatically, assessing: dirty boots, no weapons, the dark smudge of some dark liquid dried on his sleeve. Worry tightens your mouth.

“Sit.” You murmur, patting the mattress. However, he rigidly stands where he is.

“Winter.” You call out gently.

He shakes his head. “Dirty.”

You give a small nod, understanding. “Okay.”

You stand up and walk to your desk scattered with books and your laptop. “Sit here at least.” You turn the chair so it’s facing the bed. “I’ll get the shower ready.”

That makes him hesitate, and you immediately understand why.

“Or… you can come with me?” He gives you a sharp nod, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.

In the bathroom, the light is a little brighter, but he fights back the instinct to cover his eyes. You lean over to reach for the shower faucet as he follows closely, too close maybe, but you never comment, nor mind.

Standing amongst clean scents and cleaner tiles, dirty, booted feet huge and out of place on your fluffy bath mat, makes him feel momentarily lost, so without much reflection, his hand reaches for the back of your sweater, fingers fisting the fabric hard like a lifeline. It’s hard not to notice how his grip shakes.

“It’s okay,” you repeat, calmly. “I’m right here.”

The water starts to run, and he flinches at the sound, then steadies when it doesn’t change, doesn’t escalate. Steam begins to rise, fogging the mirror, and his head lowers, forehead nearly touching your shoulder blades. You can feel the shake in his entire body now—small, like he’s holding something intense back.

You keep moving, deliberately slow, as you retrieve towels and test the water with your hand, adjusting it until it’s warm but not hot. Yet you never stray far from him.

They might be mundane tasks, but having Winter standing behind you makes them feel like a precious ritual.

Finally turning around, you notice how he keeps his eyes fixed on a random spot on your top, chin tilted down as if too ashamed to meet your gaze.

“Do you want my help to undress?”

His grip on your sweatshirt tightens for a moment.

“Yes. Just… don’t leave. After.” He utters, words uneven.

“Do you want me to help you wash up?” He nods, but you gently coax him to give you permission with words.

“Yes, please.”

It feels like someone has just filled his ears with cotton wool, his mind suddenly feeling fuzzy and his tongue heavy as you carefully start peeling his dirty gear off of him. He finds his head tipping forward to rest on your shoulder as you work on his belt, your hands stopping short as you feel the weight of his head settle, now caressing his back instead.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You don’t seem to care about the filth that covers him. You just hug him closer. “Just keep breathing and let me help you.”

You feel more than hear his sigh, his shoulders slumping as he leans more against you. You hold him for a moment, yet for Winter it feels endless and not enough at the same time. When you slowly start pulling away, he fights the urge to bring you back in his arms.

Unknowingly to you, a faint blush spreads on his cheeks as you proceed to kneel down in front of him and help him remove his boots and then his pants. To anyone outside of this little sanctuary you created for him, he might be the mysterious Winter Soldier, the fist of Hydra. A ghost. But here, naked and shaking, standing before you in his rawest form, he’s just a vulnerable man craving love.

It’s been almost a year since the start of this tender relationship, but your breath never fails to hitch when your eyes fall on his freshly bruised body. Your heart breaks all the same for the old scars; they might not sting anymore, but they will forever remain bearers of great suffering.

He knows the sight makes you sad by the way the light in your eyes dim a little and your lips press together at the reminder of how much pain he must endure daily at the hands of those sadistic bastards. He hates himself for being the reason of your sadness, but there’s nothing he can do to prevent new bruises from blooming on his skin.

Another way he keeps failing you.

His blue eyes briefly dart over your body, fingers fidgeting as you remove your own clothes as well, now standing alongside him in your underwear. You offer a small smile as you open the shower door, and his ears turn scorching hot. He likes looking at you, well—he adores it, actually. You are so pretty and your skin is always pleasantly warm under his cold hands.

With a soft hand on his back, you guide him inside. There’s barely enough room to move, with Winter being tall and muscular, yet you always make it work. A small, panicked sound falls from his lips when the hand on his back disappears; abruptly turning around, his eyes frantically fly left and right, until they land on you, bent to retrieve the small white shower stool you bought deliberately for him. For nights like this one.

“Sorry, I forgot to pick it up before.” His shoulders lower at once, and when you finally get inside, you gently guide him to sit down.

“Can you tip your head back a little, baby?” A shiver runs down his spine at the familiar pet name, immediately complying. You hum softly as you start lathering his hair with your shampoo, and his eyes flutter close, prompted by the delicate, circular motions and your low voice. It could be a song by your favorite singer, or a hit from twenty years ago... he wouldn’t know. Music is a strange concept to him.

You are noticeably tender in the way you scrub at his scalp, before shielding his eyes with one hand so the mix of water and shampoo doesn’t burn them as you rinse all the grime out. You do it twice, just to be thorough. He tried to mimic your actions once… there, but his handler has only ever given him five minutes to clean up. The last time the Soldier went over time, the agent in charge broke his human fingers for having still product in his hair.

The smell of your products is also noticeably better than the unscented shampoo Hydra provides him with. Yours is just… well, you. He has come to associate that scent to your hair and body; as a matter of fact, he loves smelling like you. It allows him to bring a part of you with him when he is forced to go back there.

“Smells good.”

It’s quiet enough to be easily overridden by the water’s noise, if you weren’t always so focused on his reactions.

Your smile is fond. “Yeah? Better than the cherry and almond shampoo?”

“Too sweet.” You chuckle at the instant but subtle grimace appearing on his features, the corners of his mouth twitching at the adorable sound before he can stop it. Your eyes catch it anyway.

“There he is.” You comment quietly, still grinning.

Winter never knows what to do with your praises. His face flushes and he ducks his head, suddenly unsure where to put his eyes.

Letting the conditioner sit in his hair is his favorite part, because that means his body is next. You are even more tender with it, at the beginning he couldn’t understand why, when all his life he’s been used to rough hands and dismissive touches. They made him believe he was unworthy of such gentleness.

Your palms are tender and cautious as they reach every nook, even the marring on his left shoulder. His breathing steadies at your lack of hesitation, as your fingers trace the border where skin ends and metal begins, where the scars are now old, deep lines crossing and overlapping, reminders of a body altered without consent. He rarely looks at them. To him, they are just another proof of his uselessness.

Something in his chest tightens painfully at the distant realization that this might be the only time those scars are touched without nefarious purposes. Not to test. Not to repair. Not to weaponize.

Just… to be cleaned.

When your shower gel and the conditioner have been both washed away completely, Winter’s hands twitch where they rest on top of his thighs. The moment you’re done with his back, he stands up to face you.

“Are you okay?” You instantly ask, mentally retracing your steps. Did you touch something you weren’t supposed to? Did you push too much on a new bruise?

“You do everything.” He starts, sorrow creeping in his voice. “For me.”

You tilt your head, slightly confused.

“I want... to do it.”

“You know, I was sweating under that blanket.” You blurt out with an easy shrug.

That does it. This time, he smiles, small but real. Gone almost as soon as it appears, but it’s there.

“You sit now.” He waits for you to remove your underwear, his eyes taking sudden interest in the wall. It’s adorable how he stoically frowns at it, yet his red ears traitorously give him away.

When you are ready, he gently but firmly guides you to sit on the stool. At that, you have to bite your bottom lip to hide the endeared smile threatening to take over your lips.

Winter takes the bottle of body wash with reverence, his hands trembling, but he doesn’t hesitate. The process is slow, mimicking what you did to him. With eyebrows furrowed in concentration, he cleans all around. You stay quiet, trying to not shudder when he grazes your breasts with the slightest hint of pressure while lathering them in soap. When he gets to your hands, he cleans each finger, one by one, delicately turning your hands several times until he’s satisfied.

He hesitates before moving lower, hands hovering uncertainly over your knees. He glances up at you, checking.

“Okay?” He asks quietly.

You nod with your eyes twinkling in adoration. “I’m alright. Go on.”

So he does. He kneels, the tiles hard on his skin but he barely registers the dull ache. All of his attention narrows to the task in front of him, he needs to do this right. His hands start at your thighs with careful, methodical strokes, completely different from the way he cleans his weapons—thorough, respectful. They are steady now, the shaking reduced to a faint tremor that comes and goes with his breath.

The water runs over his fingers as he works lower, on your calves, rinsing away soap and the weight of the day you’ve carried with you as if he has all the time in the world. There’s no urgency here when he’s in your company. Then, with one hand supporting your ankle, he washes your feet, his touch confident yet tender enough to never startle, cleaning each toe in the same systematic way he did with your fingers. His eyebrows twitch in sincere concentration, every motion conveying something akin to reverence.

At last, he rinses thoroughly, ensuring no suds lingers on your body, as if leaving even a trace behind would mean he hasn’t done enough.

When Winter’s finished, he stays where he is, water still dripping from his hair and blue eyes searching your face with quiet intensity. He doesn’t smile, nor speaks.

The waiting is familiar, but this time it isn’t fear driving it. It’s hope.

Hope that he’s done well.

Hope that this, at least, was done right.

You meet his gaze with a soft smile. “You did a perfect job.”

You notice the moment your words settle into him, seeping into his bones and reaching the most visceral part of his soul. On the outside, he simply nods, accepting the praise the only way he knows how: silently, but at least the tension he’s been holding loosens its final grip on his shoulders. As a matter of fact, he rises from the floor without the rigid precision he usually carries, his movements more languid now, less guarded. His naked chest moves gently as he takes your hand, helping you stand up.

“You are clean too.” He utters, quietly proud.

“Thank you.” You smile.

Once you’re out, your hand reaches for his towel, the yellow one. It’s his favorite, worn enough to be soft against his tortured skin, yet still in good conditions. You keep it folded in your vanity cabinet, untouched except for the nights he comes home.

You always start with drying his shoulders, wrapping the towel around him and blotting instead of rubbing, careful with the metal and the scars. Once his body is only slightly damp, you reach for your own towel, but his fingers wrap around your wrist, stopping you from drying yourself.

“I can.” He mumbles, already grasping the white fabric.

You pause, searching his face for any sign of discomfort. When you find none, you simply nod with a knot lodging itself in your throat.

“Alright.”

He dries you the same way he washed you, tenderly and focused, before you wrap yourselves in your respective towels and you guide him back to your bedroom. You open a drawer, and pull out a pair of black underwear and some clothes. They’re soft, well-worn, shaped by time and repeated washing, bought specifically for him after the first time you met.

His chest tightens at the sight: red henley and grey sweatpants. He mentioned it once, how these two items feel familiar, safe, and since then, you’ve been making sure to keep them always clean and ironed, ready for the next visit.

Winter doesn’t comment, but his eyes linger on the fabric, memorizing it anew. He watches you approach with the henley folded over your arm and the sweatpants draped neatly beneath it.

“May I?” You ask once you stop in front of him, and he nods eagerly.

You help him step into the black boxers first, then the sweatpants, letting him steady himself with a hand on your shoulder when his balance wavers. He lifts each foot obediently, movements unhurried, trusting you to guide him. The henley comes next. You chuckle when he bends down to make it easier for you to reach his head, and that makes his lips twitch in amusement. You lift it over him carefully, then his arms raise, fabric sliding down warm skin, familiar and comforting. You adjust the collar and smooth the sleeves, fingers lingering on his broad chest just long enough to ensure nothing pulls or twists wrong.

“There.” You nod satisfied. “Better.” This shade of red softens him; it’s a color that was chosen, not assigned.

He looks down at himself, then back at your form standing before your closet to retrieve your own things.

“I help.” He says suddenly, materializing behind you as you look for a pair of underwear.

You pause with your hand inside the drawer. “Help?”

“With clothes.”

Your reaction is immediate, eyes softening at his eagerness to help you, to take care of you just as you are doing with him. So the fresh pair of pajamas you picked is gently pried from your hands, before he bends down. He holds the fabric open, waits for your cue, helps guide your arms through. His gaze dutifully follows his hands as he smooths your top down; they started trembling again when presented again with your beautiful naked body.

This, too, grounds him. Being useful without being used, helping without being ordered.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He shivers again as you take his hand, leading him back toward the bed. This time, he doesn’t hesitate: he follows easily, allowing you to decide where he should sit.

Relinquishing control here doesn’t feel like losing it, but like setting it down somewhere safe. He is stepping off a ledge and trusting there will be a soft mattress to land on.

You kneel on the mattress in front of him, this time dabbing water from his hair with patience.

For a moment, he’s here.

Then the stillness stretches.

The task is done, the praise has already happened. There is no next instruction.

His eyes unfocus, the room dulling around the edges, sounds flattening into something far away. His hands curl into themselves while resting on his crossed legs, fingers twitching faintly.

“Hey.” Your voice comes muffled to his ears, his head feeling heavy. “Baby, your feet.”

Your palms press against his knees, grounding him through contact. He flinches just a little, then sluggishly follows your lead, moving to sit on the edge of the bed to plant his feet flat against the floor.

“Good.” You nod. “Can you hold this for me?”

You guide his hand to the blanket you keep on top of the duvet for colder nights like this one. It’s thick, familiar, the weave uneven from years of use. His fingers instantly fidget with it, rubbing the edge between thumb and index finger.

“Alright.” You continue, kneeling between his parted legs. “Stay with me, you are safe. Can you tell me five things you see?”

His mouth opens, then closes.

“… Lamp,” he answers finally, his jaw clenched. “Window. The pictures on the wall. Desk. You.”

“Good. Four things you can touch.”

He tightens his shaky grip on the blanket. “This. The floor. The—” His breath hitches slightly. “The bed.” Then his hand tentatively reaches for yours, and you instantly intertwine your fingers, squeezing it once. “Your skin.”

“Good job, my love. Three things you can hear.”

He swallows. “Water pipes. Fridge, and… your voice.”

You smile. “Excellent. Two things you can smell.”

“Shampoo, and… soup.”

“That’s right, I made it just for you, hoping you would come by.” You nod. “And now, one thing you can taste.”

“I—water… from shower.” He blinks once. “That okay?”

“Of course, baby.” You lean closer, towel forgotten for the moment. “There you are, good job.” Your fingers stroke his knuckles tenderly.

His breath catches. Then quieter, like you’re tasting the word before letting it go, “Winter.”

The way it rolls on your tongue like silk sends a shudder through him, sharp and electric yet not painful at all.

Not Soldier. Not the title carved into him by force.

Just Winter.

Suddenly, he’s taken back to that night, when he met you. Blood crusted into his hair, fingers numb from the snow, barely able to stand. He remembers you asking what you should call him—remembers the blank space where his name should have been.

“Then, I’ll call you Winter.” You stated, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He lowers his head, breath steadying, warmth spreading through his chest, and suddenly the world doesn’t feel like it’s been plunged under water anymore.

“I like…” He gulps shakily. “When you say it.”

Means he is here with you: grounded, wrapped in softness, allowed to be held together by someone else’s careful hands.

The hand caressing his locks stills.

“I know.”

After his hair is mostly dry, you set the towel aside.

“I’m going to fetch the first aid kit, alright?” You explain quietly. “I’ll be right back.”

Winter gives you a faint whimper. “Fast?”

“Of course.”

He lets you go reluctantly, fingers still worrying the edge of the blanket and gaze diligently following you as you bring back your damp towels in the bathroom. He stays still where you left him, heart exposed and body waiting.

When you return, you press a water bottle into his hand.

“Here, drink this first, okay?” He nods, quickly chugging down the fresh liquid without pause. He pulls the bottle away only when his lungs beg for air, sharply gasping as his wide eyes search your face, open and desperate.

“Good boy.” He promptly ducks his chin down, cheeks flushed. You set the red bag on the bed, and open it slowly, as if even the sound might startle him back into a bad memory.

He glances at it, then at you.

“You know… I heal.” He says, not defensive, just factual. “Serum, by morning.”

“Do they hurt?” The left corner of your lip lifts calmly, already reaching for a cotton pad.

His eyes glance down at the wounds on his knuckles. “… A bit.”

“Then we can take care of them so they don’t.” You add, softer now.

He looks taken aback for a moment, surprised at how simple you make everything sound. “Okay.” Then nods, slightly slumping forward.

You start with his face, always warning him about what you’re about to do.

“I’m going to clean the cut on your cheek. It might sting a little.”

He nods and stills, eyes closing. The pad is cool against his skin, the pressure light, but he mainly perceives the careful fingers holding his chin.

“You’re doing great.” You whisper. “How are you feeling?”

He searches for the right answer, words not lining up the way they should. “I’m… here.” He says finally.

Your expression softens. “Good.”

Your moves are sure, cleaning each scrape, each bruise with care. Every time your hands change position, or reach for something new, your voice narrates.

“I’m going to put ointment on your cheek.”

“I’m going to touch your jaw now.”

“I’m almost done.”

The predictability steadies him, causing the rigid line of his spine to soften, inch by inch, like a bow finally unstrung, and it’s enough for his hands to abandon the blanket and clutch your sweater instead. When it’s time to take care of his hand, he tenses again—an old reflex—so you pause immediately.

“Your knuckles,” you start. “I’m going to clean them. Is that okay?”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing shakily. “Yes.”

You unhurriedly wrap his fingers, one by one, the bandages snug but not tight, and his wrist eventually goes lax. By the time you finish, he’s slightly leaning forward, without meaning to, exhaustion pulling him downward now that his body feels safe enough.

Your fingers thread slowly through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “Are you hungry?” Your warm breath tickles his forehead.

He perks up at that, just a small, imperceptible movement before he nods, his eyes still peacefully shut.

“Yes. But…” His fingers clutch the fabric of your top, pulling it slightly, as if your body might dissolve if he lets go.

“That’s okay.” You soothe. “Just come with me.”

You place one hand at his elbow, the other steady at his back. His eyes are now open yet visibly hazy as he rises with your help. His movements are languid, almost boneless, as if the fight has finally drained out of him, completely.

“Alright, let’s go slow, one foot at a time.” You keep mumbling, his steps sluggish and heavy.

The light in the kitchen is not nearly as bright as the bathroom’s since you just turn the one above the stove on.

“Do you want to sit, baby?” He immediately shakes his head, tugging again at your shirt. “Okay. Then you can keep an eye on the soup.”

You move to the fridge, taking out an airtight container. Winter stays behind you, arms wrapped around your waist and fingers still tightly grasping the front of your sweater. You leave the soup in a pot on medium-low heat, while you take care of the grilled cheese. You expertly spread a generous layer of butter on one side of four slices of bread, all the way to the edges, then repeat it with another four. After assembling the sandwich, you gingerly move back to the stove with Winter now pliant against your back, staring at your hands with half-lidded eyes.

The skillet is already hot as you place the first two slices of bread, buttered-side down. His nose digs into the slope of your neck, pinning your body gently against the counter with his weight as you try not to shiver, instead focusing on adding the cheese, then placing the other two slices on top, buttered-side up.

Your hand often picks up a wooden spoon, stirring the soup so it doesn’t scorch. The delicious smell quickly fills the apartment, simple yet familiar, and you gently squeeze his wrist, eliciting a small hum out of him. You also heat some milk, then pour it in a blue mug, the same one that he unofficially claimed as his. You test the temperature before setting it on a tray.

When the stove has been turned off, you scrupulously cut the sandwiches. Not diagonally, or halves, but into smaller, manageable pieces then arranged neatly on the plate beside the bowl of soup.

“Let’s sit on the couch so you can finally eat.” He agrees silently.

After setting the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch, you carefully unwrap his arms from your body, guiding him to sit. His shoulders are still a little rounded and no longer braced for impact.

Winter stares at the mug for a moment, then at the soup, as if recalibrating. You just observe him in silence, patient.

Food is… complicated.

Most of the time, his body is fueled without him even knowing; nutrients are delivered through tubes, systems that don’t require taste or choice. When he’s awake, eating is functional at best, discouraged at worst. Flavors are unfamiliar, overwhelming... something to manage carefully.

That’s why you make sure this is always in your kitchen. Tomato soup, cheese, bread.

Things he knows and trusts by now.

Winter shakily reaches for the plate, balancing it in his lap. He lifts the spoon with measured care, brings it to his mouth. The warmth hits first, then the rich taste. His eyes close in ecstasy.

You relax beside him, close but not crowding, smoothing your hand on his back in long, steady strokes; a rhythm he’s learned to follow.

“Is it good?” He dutifully nods, eating in small bites, pausing between each one. He switches to the sandwich after a few spoonfuls, fingers clumsy but careful around the bandages.

“Hot.” He mutters.

“I know,” you reply softly. “Careful. Don’t burn your mouth.”

Halfway through, he slows.

The spoon lowers, his gaze drifts to the plate, then somewhere far away. You don’t comment, nor try to coax him to eat more. You simply cover the plate with one of the napkins and set it back on the tray, close enough that it can be reached again if needed.

“We can wait.”

A few seconds pass, then a full minute. Winter shifts, all breath shallow and pink cheeks. His eyes flick toward your unoccupied hand resting on your thigh, then up to your face. He swallows, before quietly calling your name.

“Yes?” You perk up, lost in the hypnotic movements you kept going on his back.

“Can you… ?” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence, it’s not the first time he has asked you to feed him.

You smile reassuringly and reach for the plate. “Of course, baby.”

Scooping a modest bite, you wait until he shyly lifts his chin. Then you bring the spoon to his mouth, keeping your other hand cupped under it in case any dribbles.

His lips part, trusting your timing. He swallows, exhales, nods faintly. And you watch him proudly, feeding him slowly, praising him without pressure, alternating between a few spoonfuls of soup and a piece of grilled cheese.

“Just one more bite, sweetheart.” You coo. “You’re doing so good.”

When the bowl is empty and only crumbs linger on the plate, Winter hastily wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while you set everything back on the tray.

“Can I ask you something?” Leaning back, your turn your palm up so it rests on your thigh. An offering. Winter nods, immediately intertwining his fingers with yours.

“Do your muscles hurt today?” Then, more specifically. “Your shoulders—the left one.”

He tries to shake his head. It’s the instinctive denial that comes from habit more than truth. “I’m fine.” He answers a little too quickly.

You never argue, yet you don’t look totally convinced.

“I’d like to help.” You add instead. “If you’ll let me, I can massage it. Just like last month, do you remember?”

Winter hesitates, before nodding at your question. Of course he remembers the first time he allowed you near the metal, near the scars—the way his entire body had locked, every instinct screaming at him to pull away, to fight, and how he had forced himself to stay anyway, breath shallow, heart pounding like he was standing in the middle of a battlefield instead of your quiet room. The memory presses in now, not painful, but almost disorienting in its intensity, because nothing had happened, there was only your hands, warm and mindful.

“… Okay.” He agrees quietly.

The corners of your mouth lift relieved, and your hands promptly reach into the drawer beside the couch for a small bottle: lavender-scented massage oil.

“Can you remove your shirt for me?” Winter eagerly takes the hem, his movements clumsy and fast to please you. Meanwhile, you pour the liquid in your hands to warm it up. He watches the motion, the sweet intention behind it.

“I'm warming it,” you explain. “So it won’t hurt.” Then cup your hands in front of his face “Inhale slowly, please.”

He nods, shoulders raising and lowing deeply. You can already see his muscles relax further.

The smell is nice, yes, just not as good as your scent.

“Can you turn around for me? I’ll be right here behind you.”

Winter does as you ask, a little uncertain but compliant. Shifting closer, you kneel behind him so you can reach his shoulders without pulling him off balance.

“I’m going to start on your right side,” you warn. “Then I’ll move to the left. Tell me if anything feels wrong.”

Your palms settle on his upper back, firm but gentle, spreading warmth through muscle that hasn’t been allowed to rest properly in years. He exhales, a shaky little thing, the sound catching in his chest as distress begins to give way.

When you reach the left shoulder, your touch changes. The marks are still flushed beneath your hands, the skin uneven and textured, a map of something that was never meant to heal cleanly. You slow even further, letting your movements grow lighter, more deliberate, using only the soft pads of your fingers as you begin to trace along the edges.

“I’m here,” you murmur. “Breathe.”

You keep your touch predictable, circling carefully, letting him feel exactly where you are at all times, the warmth sinking deeper rather than forcing it. The muscle beneath your hands is still tight, but no longer braced for impact, and when you finally move closer, it’s with the same patience, the same quiet assurance. He shivers, not from pain, but from being touched there without consequence.

At that point you lean forward and press a soft kiss on one of the scars where skin meets something unyielding—brief, like a benediction rather than a claim.

The next inhale is sharp, hands curling in his lap.

“Okay?” You ask immediately.

“Yes…” he breathes. “Again. Please.”

You continue with a small smile, alternating gentle pressure with small kisses, as if you’re reminding his body that this part of him can exist without being a threat. Your lips are featherlight at first, it almost feels unreal, like they might vanish if either of you breathes too hard. You let them rest on his skin for a heartbeat longer than necessary, sealing the place with care rather than trying to erase what it holds. For once, the metal is simply acknowledged, included. Treated with the same love as the rest of him.

You learned where to touch by trial and error—where his body locked, where it flinched. Learned to listen to the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle hitch that meant too much, the slow exhale that meant stay there.

He doesn’t notice when the massage ends, not at first. When your hands finally still, he only realizes because the warmth leaves him abruptly, and his body reacts before his mind can catch on.

His back straightens. It’s instinctive, brutal in its efficiency. Muscles snap tight as wire while shoulders square as if bracing for brutality. Somewhere deep in him, an alarm shrieks—a wordless signal that something else is about to begin.

He hates that his body betrays him even here.

But nothing happens.

No command, no pain, no hands forcing him down.

Instead, he feels your fingers again, not on his shoulders this time but lighter, hesitant, brushing his nape. Then, fingertips slip into his hair.

Winter lets out a strong gasp that almost hurts his throat.

For half a second, every nerve screams no. Touch near the head is dangerous, hands on the skull mean restraint, cold metal pressing against bone. His body remembers even when his mind refuses to. But your fingers don’t grip, they don’t pull. They simply rest there, sliding gently through the strands.

The rigidity bleeds out of him gradually. Shoulders lower, spine curves again, folding back into the couch, into your space. He lets his weight settle against the cushions underneath him, his head tipped forward just enough to give you better access.

Permission, offered without words.

Your fingers comb through his hair patiently, separating locks, untangling where it knots. He hasn’t let it grow this long on purpose—basic grooming like haircuts is low on Hydra’s priority list as long as it doesn’t interfere with his efficiency. The messy, long hair combined with a mask and goggles helps obscure his features. It makes it easier to change his appearance by eventually cutting it if needed after a mission. The unkemptness, though, bothers him in ways he doesn’t fully examine. It reflects something he isn’t meant to think about—the lack of choice, the absence of ownership over his own body. Yet when you touch it with your usual tenderness, he doesn’t think about how long it’s grown or how uneven it is. He doesn’t think about how easily it could be cut away, reshaped, erased.

Your fingers linger with unhurried patience, treating each strand with reverence. As if it’s not another tool of camouflage, an accident of neglect. With you, it’s just something worth loving.

“Today was… kind of long.” Your voice is low, almost a murmur, as if afraid to bother him.

Your fingers separate a section of hair.

“Mh.”

“I had this meeting that should’ve lasted twenty minutes,” you go on. “It turned into an hour and a half, and no one actually decided anything. They just argued and talked in circles.”

You twist a strand loosely, let it fall.

“That… happen often?” He asks quietly.

“All the time.” You chuckle, a hint of resignation in your voice. “And on my lunch break too.”

Your fingers keep moving, tracing slow paths across his scalp. You gather his hair, twist them loosely, let them fall again. The repetition is hypnotic to the point his eyelids grow heavy, blinking lazily as the world narrows to the pleasant tingling sensation at the back of his head.

“Do you remember that new intern I told you about last month? The one who doesn’t know how emails work? Today he spilled coffee everywhere: papers, desk, his shoes... He swore so loud he scandalized half the floor, it was the first time he said more than one sentence.”

Winter breathes out, something akin to amusement. “Poor papers.”

“Right?” You grin. “A colleague tried to help him clean it up but he stomped around, shrieking that he could do it himself.”

He hums again, his body slightly swaying side to side.

“And then the elevator here got stuck. Again.” You sigh. “Well—not really stuck. It just stopped for a minute, but you know I get anxious in small spaces.”

He nods slightly. “I hear weird metal sounds,” he says. “Now.”

You snort quietly. “Yeah, exactly.”

Your fingers let the braid unravel and start again, patient.

“I passed this shop on the way home, there was a beautiful sundress in the window, but the color… eh. Though I stared at it like I was actually going to buy it.”

“Did you?” He perks up, suddenly interested.

“No.” You huff out a laugh. “I would never wear that shade of yellow. But the thought of buying it crossed my mind for a hot second.”

His mouth twitches. “You… think a lot.”

“Too much.” You agree with a dejected sigh.

You then gather his hair into a loose ponytail, holding it gently at the base of his neck, causing him to exhale, long and slow. The line of his throat lengthens as his head unconsciously tips back, until he accidentally meets the solid warmth of your shoulder. The knot inside his stomach finally loosens, body going lax, trusting that you will support the weight.

When you release his hair, it spills loose again, brushing his neck. Your fingers continue to play with it absentmindedly, combing through the locks.

He could easily fall asleep like this.

The thought never fails to surprise him, because the idea of falling asleep without fear is so foreign it feels almost dangerous. Sleep usually comes to him drugged, forced, or not at all. Here, it tiptoes at the edges,

A gift.

He shifts slightly, just enough to get more comfortable, and your fingers pause for a fraction of a second before resuming their moviments. Always checking, always attentive.

“The city was loud on the way home. Too much traffic for a Thursday.” Your voice is nothing short of a whisper.

“Better now.” He murmurs.

“Yeah.” You look down at his closed eyes. “Better now.”

Your breath tickles his cheek when you sigh.

“I know none of this is important.” You swallow.

His answer is swift. “It is. For me.”

Your hands still in his hair without meaning to, caught mid-motion as the weight of his words settles somewhere low in your chest.

There’s no hesitation in his voice. He means it exactly as it is, and that kind of blunt sincerity hits deeper than you’re prepared for. Your heart doesn’t quite know how to contain it. The idea that your voice, your ordinary life, your presence alone can anchor him like this, can matter this much to someone, feels like a hand squeezing your lungs.

This man, shaped by a life that has taken and taken until there was barely anything left for himself, is offering you four words so simple and yet so impossibly devastating. There’s something unbearably precious in him, in the way he gives without realizing the importance of what he’s placing in your hands. He doesn’t see how his quiet affection unravels you each time, slipping past every defense you have built throughout the years spent here in this big city, alone and far from your family.

He just sits there, unaware, trusting, letting you hold him while you’re the one coming undone.

As soon as you feel the familiar sting behind your eyes, you draw in a slow, entirely too shaky breath, forcing your fingers to move again.

Before you speak, you have to clear your throat.

“Then I’ll keep talking.”

You shift behind him. It’s a small movement, just the subtle change in pressure as your legs tense and your weight begins to lift, but he reacts as if the floor has dropped out from under him.

His eyes snap open.

The world sharpens instantly, his heart slamming hard enough that it steals his breath. His hand shoots back, fingers curling into fabric and gripping your sweater at the hem until his knuckles turn white.

“Don’t—”

The word doesn’t quite make it out. It breaks apart in his throat, unfinished.

You freeze.

“I’m here,” you soothe immediately, not pulling away. Your hand comes down over his, tender and grounding. “I just wanted to get your shirt and the blanket.”

Winter blinks, breath stuttering as panic drains in reluctant waves. His grip loosens, fingers uncurling as shame sharply burns in his veins. After he releases the fabric completely, his hand falls back to his side.

“Sorry.” He mutters.

You don’t correct him, nor say it’s okay or that he shouldn’t apologize. You never frame it like a mistake. Instead, you smile softly and reach for the folded blanket draped over the back of the armchair as he quickly puts his henley on, still avoiding your eyes.

When you return, you wrap him in it. Carefully at first, tucking it around his shoulders, then you pull it tight enough that he can feel the pressure along his arms and chest, the reassuring weight settling over him like an armor made of wool instead of scratchy, rigid cloth.

The blanket faintly smells of your detergent, the scent keeping the edges of him from drifting apart as he grips it reflexively.

You lie back down with him, adjusting until you fit together along the length of the couch. One arm slides beneath his shoulders, the other wraps around his waist, drawing him closer.

He hesitates for half a second, then shifts, turning into you. His head comes to rest on his favorite place, your chest. The position is vulnerable in a way that makes his instincts recoil. Head exposed. Ear pressed against soft, unarmored flesh. Too close. Too open.

But then he feels it.

The rise and fall beneath his cheek. Calm. Steady.

Your breathing.

And beneath that, fainter but unmistakable, the rhythmic thud of your heart.

Alive.

The realization hits him with unexpected force. It tightens his throat, a strange pressure blooming behind his eyes. He focuses on the sensation desperately, like committing coordinates to memory. The warmth of your body, the cadence of your breath… The proof that you are here with him now. Unhurt. Real.

Winter inevitably presses closer, until his ear is aligned perfectly over your left breast. The sound of your heartbeat becomes clearer, more defined. His own beat gradually syncs to it, instinctively matching your breathing.

Meanwhile, you pick the remote and turn on the TV. The volume stays low, barely more than a murmur, but he recognizes the opening notes of the intro immediately.

It’s the show you introduced him to months ago—something simple and predictable. He doesn’t understand every joke, every reference, and language still slides past him sometimes, too fast and cluttered. But he catches enough: the rhythm, the emotion, and he knows the characters. Knows that nothing truly bad happens in it, not really.

It’s safe noise.

“This one… good?”

“It’s your favorite episode.” You reassure him. “The one with the cheesecake.”

He hums in acknowledgment, the sound vibrating against your chest. He likes the cheesecake episode. The characters tell the story of how they came to meet and live together, and even if they bickered at the beginning, they still stayed together, still chose each other. That’s what friends do, apparently.

“I guess I do that too sometimes.” You shake your head as one of the protagonists keeps blabbering. “Instead of just letting things be, I dissect them. Over and over again.” You murmur half-amused.

Winter shifts slightly, his fingers curling into the blanket at your side. “You think a lot.” A pause. “You care. Is good.”

You chuckle softly. “That’s a very nice way to put it.”

You go quiet for a moment, then continue, pensively. You tell him about how you promised yourself to read more literary classics, so you bought a popular one but haven’t finished it because you keep falling asleep halfway through the same chapter. About your favorite coffee shop near the headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D. that changed management, and now the coffee tastes awful.

“They ruined it.” You whine dramatically. “It was the only good thing about going to work.”

Winter exhales through his nose, close to a laugh. “A crime.”

You chuckle at that, the sound vibrating through your chest and into him. He clings to it, to the way your body moves with the sound. You lapse into companionable quiet again, punctuated by the low dialogue of the show, as your hand drifts slowly up and down his back, a repetitive motion that requires no attention.

Eventually, you speak again.

“Did you like the food?” You wonder. “I think the soup was too salty.”

He nods, then remembers you can’t see him. “Was good.” He states. “Easy.”

“That’s the goal.”

He gathers enough courage to add. “You… make it better. Eating.”

Your arms tighten around him almost imperceptibly. “I’m glad.”

The episode ends and another begins. He doesn’t track the plot as closely now, his focus narrowing again to sensation: your heartbeat, the warmth of your palms, the pressure of the blanket holding him together.

This... This is what matters.

Not the missions, the handlers, the endless commands and resets.

He can feel you alive beneath his cheek, and in doing so, remind himself that he is still here with you, safe.

His eyes flutter shut without he meaning to, sleep pulling at him early. It always does when he’s here, once the tension has been sanded down by love and proximity and the low murmur of the television. His body is heavy, reluctant to move, still, his mind can’t quite settle yet.

The sigh escaping his nostrils is small but purposeful.

“Sleepy?” He nods. “Do you want your journal?” Another nod, suddenly more awake.

You don’t try to stop him, even when his eyes are glassy with exhaustion and his movements lethargic. You know this is not a habit he can skip, not without consequence.

Winter disentangles himself carefully, the loss of your body registering as a faint ache. The blanket slides from his shoulders and he folds it with unsurprising precision before setting it aside, while you slip inside your bedroom. Hidden behind carefully folded sweaters lies a plain, dark-covered diary.

When you come back, he gently takes it from your hands, sitting back on the couch as you keep yourself busy watching the episode where one of the protagonists worries about menopause.

The pen is already there, snug in the black pen loop you bought for him. His hand aches faintly as he writes, yet he ignores it. Fatigue is irrelevant. This is survival.

He writes the date first, slowly. Then, he begins. The sentences are simple, concrete. Things that cannot be argued with.

Drank warm milk. Blue mug. Chip on the rim.

He pauses, considering, then adds.

Did not hurt stomach.

His handwriting is uneven, but each letter is formed with intent, pressed harder than necessary, as if afraid it might fade. Briefly glancing up, his eyes wander across the apartment, collecting details.

Blanket is the one her mother made. Wool. Heavy. Very warm. Smells like her soap.

Her sweater is soft under fingers. Loose. She wears it when too cold.

His grip tightens slightly on the pen. Flipping back a few pages, his eyes scan what he’s written on previous nights, focusing on continuity. Evidence that this has happened before, that it wasn’t a dream. Because if there is something in this world equally terrifying as seeing you hurt, it's forgetting you.

They notice it before he can do something about it.

A second too slow to pull the trigger, the way his gaze drifts instead of snapping back to attention.

Reports flag it as inefficiency, Pierce calls it degradation.

They restrain him in a room that smells like metal and disinfectant, rough hands pull and prod at his skin, clipped and impersonal voices talk about him like an object.

He fights them harder than he ever has before. To remember.

He snarls, limbs thrashing as they drag him forward. Hands close around his arms, his shoulders, his throat. He kicks, feral and wild, teeth bared, a sound tearing out of him that isn't language anymore.

Images flood his mind in sharp, desperate flashes: you asleep on your side; your palms stroking his back; the new set of lamps you bought specifically for him, gentler on his eyes than the bright ones installed in your apartment. And then your voice, whispering that he’s safe, even when he is forced on his knees by gloved fingers.

He can’t lose that.

He can’t lose you.

“I need—” he gasps, straining against their grip. “Please—I can’t—”

They don’t listen.

He twists free for half a second—enough to stumble back, enough for a spark of hope to deceptively ignite in his chest—and then more hands are on him. Too many. He is forced on the looming chair, strapped in, leather biting into his wrists and chest, and a mouth guard forced between his teeth.

Panic explodes.

He screams.

Your name flicks over and over again in his mind, and he clings to it like a lifeline, trying to carve it into himself deep enough that it can’t be burned away.

The warmth. The quiet. The way your eyes light up when he finally comes home.

He begs fiercely for those moments to stay.

Then the world goes black.

A week passes in pieces he can’t track. No missions, no movement. Just pain and foggy fragments. His head feels hollow, like a forgotten room after furniture has been stripped out.

When they finally deploy him again, he follows orders flawlessly. And when it’s over, when the static noise in his brain fades and the city falls asleep… His feet take him somewhere else.

The Soldier stands in the middle of your living room, rigid and uncertain, surrounded by objects that mean nothing and everything at the same time. The couch, the lamp, the faint smell of your lotion.

His head hurts.

Then, the door opens.

You freeze in the doorway, keys still in your hand. Your eyes widen as they find him, but neither of you finds the courage to move.

Something is wrong. He could see it flash in your expression—shock, something like grief—and it makes his chest hurt inexplicably.

“I…” He swallows. Words feel wrong. “I don’t know why…” He says slowly. “But I needed… here.”

Silence stretches between you, fragile as glass. Your vision instantly blurs with tears, because his blue eyes are so... empty, yet he came here. Not by memory. Not by choice. Not in any way that makes sense, but something buried deeper than whatever they took from him still found you.

Crossing the room with measured steps, as if approaching a scared animal, you stop just short of touching him, like you are afraid he might vanish with a single brush of your fingertips.

“Winter.” You whisper.

A flicker, small and disoriented, passes through his expression, like a crack forming beneath the surface. His breathing stutters, just once, and for a second he looks like he’s caught between two places, two versions of himself that don’t quite align.

Then his gaze slips away from you. It drifts unfocused, like he’s trying to escape the weight of the moment, until it catches on something sitting on the coffee table. A notebook, plain and worn, nothing extraordinary, but the sight brings a frown to his face.

Why does that object suddenly feel important enough to be acknowledged?

“That.”

Your breath hitches when you turn around and see what he is pointing at.

“You—” Stopping yourself when your voice breaks, you take a moment to swallow back a sob and clear your throat. “You wrote it for—for moments like this. You told me to read it when I miss you, so…”

You carefully place it in his hands.

Inside, there are endless pages of his own messy handwriting.

She keeps me safe.

Not a weapon here.

I love her.

The words land one by one, heavy... Devastating.

He sinks to the floor, clutching the journal to his chest like it might keep his body from crumbling.

Hydra wiped him. And still, somehow, he found his way home.

Once, he didn’t know what was missing. The emptiness was just his ordinary state of being, another blank space he learned to move through without question. Now he knows the shape of what can be erased.

The memory of that week sits in him like a bruise he can’t stop pressing. The chair and the restraints are almost manageable. What haunts him the most is the look on your face when you realized Winter was gone.

He remembers the fear, that’s what stays with him.

After that night, every time he leaves your apartment he catalogues it more carefully than any mission. From the smell of your hair to the cadence of your soft laugh so you don’t wake your neighbors. He stores these things with the same ruthless precision Hydra engraved into him.

He also starts writing more.

The journal never leaves your apartment, but it grows heavier with pages, dates, details. Small things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else.

Drinks her tea too hot.

Bounces her right knee when nervous.

He writes not because he thinks it will save him, but because the thought of waking up without any memory of you terrifies him more than pain ever has.

The fear also changes how he touches you. His fingers linger longer, like every contact might be the last one. His hands rest on your waist a second too long, and his forehead presses to yours when he thinks you’re asleep.

He never confesses that some nights he’s afraid to close his eyes because he might wake up empty again. That the warmth in his chest could vanish, leaving nothing but orders.

He also becomes more careful with routine.

If he misses a visit, panic coils hot in his gut. If you move something in the apartment, he frantically asks you where it went, and why. If you suggest changing your rituals—a different kind of food, a different chair—he stiffens before he can stop himself.

So you learn to reassure him in new ways.

“If they take it again, we’ll rebuild it together. I promise.”

The desperate urge to believe you is there, but his heart won’t let him forget how close he came to losing everything without even knowing it was gone. And every time he walks back into your apartment, every time the lock clicks behind him, relief floods his bones so hard it nearly hurts.

He is still here.

You are still here.

And for now, that has to be enough.

It all comes to a head the following month. He notices it the exact moment he steps inside.

Your mug is wrong.

For starters, it’s sitting on the counter instead of the table. It’s also a different one—slender, white, unfamiliar weight. The sole sight makes something inside his stomach churn.

You look up from the stove, surprised. “Hey.” Your smile should ease a little bit of the tension in his shoulders, but he’s too busy having a one-sided staring contest with the new mug. “You’re early.”

You weren’t expecting two visits in two days, not that you’re complaining.

Winter nods, still by the window he came in, and you follow his gaze. “Oh! The blue one is still in the dishwasher.”

His throat tightens. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

“Okay.” He rushes out. “Okay.”

He moves deeper into the apartment, checking the windows, the lock, the corners. Everything is where it should be. Everything except that small, ordinary change that shouldn’t matter at all.

Your smile fades into a thin line.

Setting the dishcloth down, you call softly. “Winter, can you sit here for a second?” He hesitates.

“Please.” Your eyes are not as sparkly as usual, and that’s what makes him move, perching himself on the edge of his chair, spine straight, hands clasped together so tightly the plates of his metal arm hum faintly.

His eyes stubbornly fix on the floor as you open the dishwasher, pick the right mug, still wet and hot, and set it in front of him. A quiet exhale escapes him before he can stop himself.

“Hey.” You breathe out, crouching in front of him, always careful not to crowd him. “Talk to me.”

“I’m fine.” He answers automatically.

“You panicked.” Not accusing, just stating a fact.

Winter shakes his head. “No. Just—the mug… not here.”

“There was a different mug. It was not in his usual place, and it scared you.”

His jaw tightens, still not looking at you. So you reach out, your hand resting over his knuckles. “Is it happening again?” You whisper. “The fear of forgetting?”

Winter swallows.

“I remember,” he starts, the words coming out rough. “That week.”

Your breath catches.

“Didn’t know…” He quavers. “Didn’t know you.” His voice falters, but his lips press together, forcing the rest out. “I can’t forget this, I can’t forget you.”

Your other hand tentatively comes up to cradle his cheek, soft but firm enough to turn his face toward yours. He regards you with distress, almost close to bursting into tears.

“Baby,” your voice is surprisingly even. “You found me without your memories.”

He shakes his head, breath coming out dangerously fast. “What if I don’t?” The words spill out like a waterfall. “What if I walk here but don’t stop and—and don’t see you again?”

You pull him into your arms before the demons can take him. His body stiffens for half a second, then collapses into the embrace. His forehead presses into your shoulder hard, almost as if trying to fuse together your bodies. His hands clutch the back of your shirt, desperate and grounding all at once, tears already wetting your collarbones.

“They can hurt you,” you murmur into his hair. “They can take pieces, but they will never get this.” Your hand presses over his chest, right on his heart. “They don’t get what you choose.”

“I’m scared.” He chokes on a sob, barely audible.

“I know, sweetheart. I am too.” You chin wobbles. “But I trust you to always come back to me. Whatever happens.”

You lean back just enough to look at him, hands cradling his jaw as your thumbs brush his stubble. “We’ll make more anchors,” you continue with a sniffle. “More than the journal, more than routines. You won’t have to carry this alone.”

Winter searches your face with a lonely tear sliding down his cheek.

“But you need to tell me when it gets bad, my love.” You add. “You can’t just carry it alone.”

He nods, a small, shy movement. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

You rest your forehead against his, his body still trembling under your palms. Gradually, his shoulders lower, the panic ebbing vertiginously, leaving him utterly drained and hollow against the warmth of your chest.

That day, the Soldier learns that being seen in his fear makes it hurt less.

On the bookshelf nearby, something colorful catches his peripheral vision. A photograph. His eyes squint faintly, not remembering having ever written about it. Walking with military precision, he retrieves it to study it under the low light. You look younger, standing with a group of people, all smiling too wide, holding papers.

Graduation.

He sits back on the couch.

Photo on shelf. Her graduation. She is smiling, with friends. I forgot.

He underlines the last sentence once, not hard enough to tear the page. Still, he frowns at it, then adds one more line, smaller.

Watched show. Cheesecake episode is my favorite.

Winter finally closes the journal with care. The cover makes a soft, final sound as it meets itself, and for a moment his palm rests flat against it, as if sealing what he’s written inside. The facts are there now. Anchored and secured.

He then hands it to you with a single word. “Wait.”

It’s never shaped as a command, yet you nod and stay on the couch, blanket pooled on your crossed legs and journal protectively pressed against your chest as your gaze follows him discretely. Winter rises, and his posture changes immediately: spine straightening, eyes narrowing and breath recalibrating.

This is another version of him. Not the one who blushes when you call him sweetheart, not the Winter who closes his eyes and asks for snuggles against your chest.

He moves through the apartment without sound, bare feet finding the places that won’t creak. The living room comes first, then the narrow hallway. He checks the front door, fingers testing the lock once, twice... because certainty matters. You deserve to sleep behind a door that he knows, without question, is secure.

The deadbolt is firm, the chain untouched.

That’s when he stops to listen. The building has a specific rhythm at night, he learned it in his second month here, the same way he memorizes terrain. The movement of pipes at predictable hours. The distant hum of traffic softened by elevation. The occasional elevator cable groaning faintly through the walls.

Tonight, everything matches, so he moves on.

The windows come next. He just checks the latches, presses gently against the glass, notes how the frames sit in their tracks. One latch feels a little too loose when he tests it, so he tries again and again, toying with it a little until he hears the click seat properly.

Good.

There are things you don’t notice. The way footsteps in the stairwell sometimes echo wrong, too light. Pondered. The way a door should never close without sound in this building. The suspicious absence of noise where there should be some. When something doesn’t fit, his body knows before his mind names it.

Each night Winter spends here, he positions himself between you and the door. It’s not conscious anymore, his body simply arranges itself that way, a barrier of muscle and metal laid instinctively in the path of danger.

Only on certain nights he lets you take that place, when sleep turns against him and memories surface uninvited, too vivid and sharp. His body reacts accordingly, with a hand curling at his side as if looking for weapons that aren’t there.

You know the signs, and you talk him back every time, unfailingly.

Your hand presses flat between his shoulder blades as your voice tenderly tells him where he is, the date, his name. Your name. You remind him that the walls are painted a certain color, that there is a tile by the window that creaks and every single time he visits, he promptly forgets and steps right on it. That here, he doesn’t have to worry about loud voices and aggressive hands. That you love him.

You stay awake until his breathing evens out. Sometimes, when it’s especially bad, you convince him to let you sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door, as if daring the world to come through you first. He hates that, yet his eyes wet at your refusal to let him carry everything alone, at the way you fiercely fight to give him some respite.

It still takes him everything to not pull you back.

Winter’s not only good at spotting things out of place, but also all your little tells. The way your hands get cold when you’re tired, how you push yourself through chores even when your shoulders slump because your lower back hurts, your hands faintly shaking when you’re anxious. When he sees it, he doesn’t comment—he just intervenes. Gently guides you to sit. Takes the dish from your hands. Finishes folding the laundry while you observe him with half-lidded eyes, beaming as he lines the edges up with meticulous precision. He cleans up before you can see the mess: broken glass swept away silently, coffee wiped from the counter before it can stain. You can handle it, yes, but he wants your world intact, even in small ways.

He never tells you everything and because of that, his stomach often twists with guilt.

You ask sometimes, careful not to pry. His answers tiptoe around the truth, the sharp edges trimmed to not worry you more than he has already done. He leaves out the blood, the parts that would keep you awake at night, and when memories surface, too dark to contain, he removes himself, stepping away so the weight of them won’t taint your peace.

When you apologize with a small voice and unshed tears for constantly worrying about him, he shakes his head, strong arms already cocooning you in his warmth.

Winter also keeps supplies stocked without telling you: batteries replaced before they die, water bottles cycled so the oldest are used first, first-aid replenished. He memorizes alternate exits in your building, calculates the fastest routes away, times his arrivals and departures so no one sees patterns forming.

He teaches you safety in pieces small enough to not frighten you. A suggestion here, a quiet reminder there, a careful demonstration of how to free yourself from unwelcome hands.

“Always look peephole first. Even if you wait for someone.”

“Leave lights on when not home too.”

“Don’t say you live alone.”

If you mention having to go somewhere for work, or with your friends, he warns.

“Too crowded.”

“Only one emergency exit.”

And you prepare accordingly.

On rare days when he can stay longer—when missions are short or delayed—he sits with you through work phone calls, holding your hand beneath the table, his head resting on your shoulder when voices on the other end get too insolent.

Despite the danger of being caught, he stays nearby whenever you’re sick, just enough to assess the building from a distance. He always makes sure to check on you in his own ways.

So even if he’s gone, part of him still lingers in every precaution, every habit you follow, like an unspoken promise: he will always try to keep you safe, whether or not you can see him.

By the time Winter finishes with his safety rounds, the edges of his vision have blurred with unavoidable exhaustion. You are now curled at one end of the couch, knees tucked up and eyes glued on the screen. The television is still on, low volume, but your full attention instantly shifts on him when he sits beside you.

“There you are.” You mumble. His hand reaches out before he’s aware of it, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. “Everything okay?”

He nods once. “Good.”

“Do you want to go to bed?” He hums, promptly following you as you rise. He stays half a step behind you, like a shadow that isn’t meant to be threatening, his fingers still hooked into your shirt. When you reach the bedroom doorway, he hesitates.

There’s something else he wants to do.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, searching for the right words without imposing. His brows knit, and his grip tightens slightly in hesitation.

“Uh,” he starts. Gapes. Then tries again. “We… do face thing?”

You turn, already beaming. “Skincare?”

“Yes.” He nods quickly, hopeful. “Skincare night.”

There’s something almost boyish in the way he says it, his eyes studying your face with a smile.

“If you’re not too tired.”

His answer is immediate, punctuated by a firm shake of his head. “Not tired.”

It isn’t a lie. His body is drained, but this doesn’t cost him anything; on the contrary, he loves spending time with you, doing what you like.

The corners of your lips lift in amusement. “Okay. Come on, then.”

The first time you introduced him to skincare, it was nothing short of endearing.

His blue, confused eyes follow your movements as you adjust the Shrek headband on his head. It was yours, a gag birthday gift from your best friend.

“What?” Winter frowns over your shoulder, staring down at the two colorful face mask packets.

“These are face masks. The pink one is a moisturizing and soothing mask with chamomile. The yellow one is supposed to give your skin a glowing boost.” You explain, opening the first one.

Winter’s eyebrows rise in interest, slightly leaning in to tentatively sniff the foreign object. “Cold?”

“Yep, they’re a little cold.” You carefully unravel the mask sheet.

“Pretty?” You hum in confusion. “My skin pretty like yours with… this mask?”

Oh.

You look up at him then, your chest suddenly tightening at the way his eyes blink down at you, curious and innocent.

“Oh baby, your skin is already pretty.” The apples of his cheeks gain a beautiful rosy shade. “Now bend down a little please, this is for you.”

He tries his best to stay still as you set it on his face, your lips twisting into an amused grin at his grimace when one hem briefly gets caught on his left eye. You carefully smooth the mask on his features, before pulling away to admire your work.

Pierce would probably have an aneurysm if he saw the menacing Winter Soldier wearing a Shrek headband and a pink face mask.

“Alright?”

“Sticky.” Winter mutters as his eyes glance up at the mirror, studying his face.

You tear open the other pack, giggling. “It’s just for a few minutes, I swear.”

His nose wrinkles at the reflection staring back at him. His face feels wet, and the mask actually forces him to keep his chin up, worried it might suddenly lose its grip and slide right off his face. But he loves the way you touch him to apply your little products right after. He also can’t deny the normalcy of it all. And when you cup his cheeks to check for any left over cream? He melts into your hold like ice cream under the sun. But it’s only when you lean over him a little at the end to peck his lips that Winter promises himself to never skip skincare.

You reach under the sink and pull out his headband.

“Wolf?”

You nod. “Wolf.”

He bends without being asked, lowering his head so you can slip it over his hair. The fabric brushes his temples as your fingers adjust it, the fuzzy feeling prompting him to close his eyes and hum under his breath.

You bought it on a whim, and then hesitantly showed it to him on his following visit, shyly explaining how you had seen it at the store and thought of him. He nodded at the time, unsure how to respond. But that night, he held it in his hands for hours after you fell asleep, committing the feel of it to memory.

You brush your teeth first, side by side at the sink. He observes you in the mirror while pretending not to, drinking all your details in: from the way you unconsciously lean forward to examine your skin, to the small crease between your brows when you floss. The domestic normalcy of it all makes his chest ache. This is what other men do, he thinks. They stand in their bathroom with the people they love, arguing about the correct way to squeeze toothpaste. Just existing in these quiet spaces without fear.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring before you glance up and catch his eye in the reflection.

“Okay?”

He nods a little embarrassed. “I like this.”

Your smile softens. “Me too.”

Afterward, you reach for the cleanser. He turns toward you automatically, chin lowering just slightly in invitation.

“Do you remember what this does?” You pump a small amount on your palm.

“Cleans skin?”

“Correct.” You smile brightly, working it on his face carefully, narrating the motions. He focuses on the sensation of your thumbs circling his cheekbones, and the mild, clean scent that causes his nostrils to flare.

The mask comes next, he recognizes it by the packaging.

“This is funny.” He murmurs when you unfold the pattern of a panda.

You snort, carefully smoothing it on his face. “You say that every time.”

He shrugs, lips twitching. “Animals are cute.”

You put on yours while he starts examining all the other products, humming after reading each label. His flesh hand is still gripping your shirt.

“Serum.” Winter mentions suddenly. “What do?”

“Serum helps with a lot of things. Let’s say it gives skin the support it needs.”

He hums absentmindedly, absorbing the sound of your voice more than the information itself.

“Sunscreen?”

“Protects your skin from the sun’s aggressive radiations, and prevents aging.”

He frowns indignantly. “You are not old.”

You laugh at his offended tone. “It’s preventative.”

With a huff, he goes back to the next product. “Retinol?”

“It stimulates the production of collagen. Basically it smoothes wrinkles and fine lines.” You explain patiently. “But it can be harsh, so I don’t use it every night.”

He nods solemnly, as if this knowledge is vital. In a way, it is. It’s part of you, part of the world you exist in that doesn’t involve violence.

He studies your face while you talk, his heart beating a little faster when your eyes light up at his curiosity. He loves this version of you—relaxed and smiling. Because this is what you look like everyday, in the moments he’s not allowed to be part of.

When it’s time to remove the masks, he sits on the closed toilet lid as instructed and closes his eyes without being asked. This is the part he likes best.

“Mh, moisturizer...” You mumble absently. “Now where did I put that?”

Your fingers are gentle when you finally smooth the cream into his skin, the movement unhurried, almost reverent. The texture melts beneath your touch, and you take your time with it, tracing along the lines of his face, easing it especially into his forehead and nose, where the skin looks particularly dry.

He leans forward slightly without seeming to realize it, naturally drawn toward the contact. When you finish, Winter doesn’t move.

He waits expectantly, holding completely still. Finally, his patience is rewarded.

The press of your lips is a chaste, little thing, but his entire body locks for a fraction of a second, a slow, unmistakable wave of heat rising through him, creeping up his neck and into his face before he can regain control of it. The kiss ends too soon, yet when his eyelids flutter open, he pushes down the need to caress his lips, still tingling with the memory of your mouth. They part slightly enough for the tip of his tongue to lick them to try and taste you again.

For a moment, he just sits uselessly, gaping as his heart does some embarrassing cartwheel in his ribcage. Then he swallows, mustering all his courage. “My turn now.”

Your smile is radiant when his hands carefully grasp your shoulders, leading you to sit down. He frowns in concentration as he applies the moisturizer on your face with precise movements, not caring about the way his eyes linger too much on your features now that your eyes are closed and he can admire your beauty all he wants without the urge to hide out of embarrassment.

When Winter hums satisfied, you know he’s finished. Once your eyes open, you instantly catch his expectant eyes.

“You did good. Thank you, baby.” You chirp warmly.

His eyes twinkle with something unspoken yet very evident. He simply allows himself to give you a nod, unable to speak, before he clumsily leans in and kisses you—quick, shy, barely there.

You bite your bottom lip to hide a grin. “Ready for bed?”

He reaches for your hand with a nod, fingers threading through yours.

The mattress dips under your weight, sheets rustling softly and pillows shifting as you settle into them. You move around a little until you’re comfortable, your arms relaxed at your sides.

Winter stands at the edge of the bed, hands hanging motionless at his sides for a moment before one of them finds your outstretched arm, closing around your palm. The lamp casts your face in warm light, softening every line, the room now feeling like a little, cozy haven where the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Like time itself has slowed just to savor this moment.

“How do you want to sleep?”

Some nights, he knows immediately; the answer rises up in him like instinct. Other nights, like this one, the want is there but tangled in hesitation, in the lingering belief that wanting too much might be a burden.

He swallows, shifting forward, movements clumsy enough that they would shock anyone who’s ever seen him in action elsewhere. Precision isn’t what he needs right now, nor is control. So he awkwardly climbs onto the soft bed, knees sinking into the mattress between your legs, before hovering for half a second and checking your face for any sign of discomfort.

“Come here.” You encourage him softly, immediately understanding and opening your arms.

Winter lowers himself with meticulous care so you don’t have to bear the full weight of him. He’s acutely aware of the difference between you two, of his strength. He would never forgive himself for hurting you, even by accident.

When he’s comfortable enough, his head finally rests on your chest, fingers shakily clutching the fabric of your sweater to further anchor himself.

The effect is immediate.

Your heartbeat meets his ear, constant and reliable. He exhales, a long breath that feels like it’s been waiting in his lungs all night.

His body exists in a world that is often abstract—rooms blur together, nights collapse into each other, days are measured in objectives rather than hours. But here, your heart gives shape to time, each beat a proof of continuity.

He adjusts his head again, angling his cheek so his lips are directly brushing the fabric of your shirt. The movement of your chest is calming and deep, and without thinking, he begins to match it. He’s learned, over time, that when he listens to your breathing long enough, his own stops being sharp, like something he has to monitor. His body sinks further when your palm settles between his shoulders, while your other hand finds his hair almost immediately, fingers threading through it in slow, patient strokes.

“Are you comfortable, baby?” With a simple nod, the fluttering in your stomach eases, and you wish him a good night, punctuated by a soft peck on his forehead.

His breath gradually evens out, and just when you think he’s fallen asleep, you hear a deep mumble. Your name.

“Thank you.”

“Rest, my love. Tonight, I’ll keep everything else far away from you.”

You keep stroking his back until you eventually drift off as well.

The first pale light of dawn slips across your bedroom timidly. Winter would have slept longer, lulled by your warmth, listening to the steady reassurance of your breathing, but some parts of him never fully shut down. Awareness rises abruptly, and he forces to stay still for a long moment, before shifting carefully, yet your eyes flutter open even before he can fully get up.

“Don’t.” He whispers. “Sleep.”

“I can’t.” You mumble, voice tight. “Not today.”

It’s always like this, the moment you both have to face the harsh reality again. And without failing, that devious, gnawing realization that this might be the last time you see him forms a knot in your throat. You don’t let him see it, never, even if he notices it in the way your hands tremble as you set up the table for breakfast. He notices it in your eyes, when you pretend to not stare at him, trying to memorize every single detail of his face; in the way you help him dress up, glaring at his gear as if it’s its fault he has to go. In the way your voice chokes when he hugs you by the door.

And then he hears it as he hesitantly walks away, when you fall to your knees and cry your eyes out, shivering and alone.

Under different circumstances, you’d probably try to bribe Winter to stay under the covers with you, ignore your responsibilities and spend the entire day lazing away and making love. But your situation is not normal, and your body hurts as if a million needles are pricking your skin; the urge to move, to do something to exorcise your heartbreak claws restlessly under your ribs.

You help him to the bathroom, guiding him under the shower. You ask if he needs help, as usual, but his answer is always the same, without fail.

“No, or I never leave.”

You don’t even know where you find the strength to giggle. Maybe it’s because you are so desperate to see that little satisfied smile of his when he realizes he is the one and only to elicit such a melodious sound out of you.

You then sit side by side at the kitchen table, knees occasionally bumping as he basks in your care. Winter eats his eggs and toast sluggishly, tasting each bite and savoring every second of you asking him if he wants more eggs, or if he’d like some juice beside the usual cup of warm milk.

Next comes the tactical gear. He stands still while you help him, letting you guide his arms into sleeves, fastening straps, adjusting the fit. All the while he grasps your waist with white knuckles. Your lips stay in a thin line and your gaze lingers a fraction too long on each buckle, each seam. He swallows when your fingers deliberately brush his arms and shoulders, as if trying to memorize his body one last time.

Once you secure the final strap, your hand finds its place on his chest. You pause, just for a heartbeat, then smooths the fabric flat before leaving a kiss on his cheek.

He wants to say something, anything to make this easier… but the truth is, nothing can.

When time comes, you reach for a plastic container on the counter. Winter already knows what’s inside: neatly cut fruit—apple slices, grapes, something bright and citrusy. He promptly takes it, and something in his chest fractures open.

Tears burn the back of his eyes before he can stop them. He blinks hard, jaw tightening, but they come anyway, blurring the edges of the room. He stares down at the fruit, a small parting gift, something you quietly added to your rituals so he wouldn’t have to go back alone. Something that reminds him of you.

His blue eyes firmly fix on yours as he momentarily places the container on the console table, before hurriedly stepping forward to tug you into his arms. His face presses into the slope of your neck, desperately clinging to the familiar shape of your body like it’s the only real thing left.

This is what he hates the most. How good it feels to hold you, how natural.

And how wrong it seems to walk away from it.

Your arms come up around him instantly, holding him just as tightly, forehead pressed to his chest.

Maybe if he stays like this long enough, the world will forget to pull him back.

When Winter looks at you, he lifts a shaky hand to hold your cheek, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead. Then another on your lips.

“Can pretend I’m normal man.” He rasps out. “Going to normal work.”

Your breath hitches for a moment. A quick, cruel image of you sending him off to an ordinary job crosses your mind. Maybe in a different lifetime, when you are a wife kissing her husband goodbye. Or a girlfriend giggling in her boyfriend’s arms at the promise of a romantic date. A world where he gets to live his life without vicious control.

Yet you manage a small smile, for him, thumb brushing his wrist. “And I can pretend you’ll come back to me at the end of the day.”

The Soldier can only gulp through another fresh set of tears. It hurts too much to say more.

You hold each other’s gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you—an understanding carved out of repetition and trust.

“Remember me.” You choke out.

“Always.” He breathes out, hands clutching the back of your sweater.

“I love you.”

Your lips quiver. “I love you too.”

Winter reluctantly pulls back. It’s a slow, torturing process that leaves the both of you terrifyingly cold. He picks up the plastic container, tucks it safely under his arm, and turns to open the front door.

The first step forward makes his jaw clench, then, because the hundreds of swords piercing through his bleeding heart are not excruciating enough, he decides to look over his shoulder.

You stand framed in the doorway, arms crossed tightly around yourself as if trying to prevent your body from shattering into a million pieces. Your wet eyes desperately wander all over his form, lips contorting in various shapes to keep your trembling chin at bay. Still, you force a small smile, because you know how important it is for him to remember you like this—serene, safe.

He commits the image to memory with ruthless precision, before fully walking into the silent hallway. He doesn’t look back once he steps onto the emergency stairwell, the door cautiously closing behind him to not alert your neighbors.

To you, it sounds like thunder cracking the sky open.

By the time the city truly wakes, the Winter Soldier has already vanished.

— ⟢ END NOTES: some of you may know that I’m not a big fan of the daddy/mommy kink, I discussed it briefly in a post a few months ago. I still insert it some rare times, because I believe it fits naturally in some stories, but I wasn't really sure about this one. as a matter of fact, I kept re-reading it after posting it and eventually I came to dislike it. I decided to remove it and with it, there have been some changes concerning the smut part. the reason is very simple: the focus of this story is taking care of the winter soldier, studying a different side of him, and yet at some point I felt like the smut became somehow the main protagonist. in the end, I decided to scrap it completely. I kept re-writing it, but then I just realized that a sexual scene didn’t fit all this. he feels comfortable enough to interact with the reader sexually, which shows a deep level of trust. he feels safe enough to be this vulnerable in a context so fragile and emotionally charged... but I wanted it to happen differently, to convey something different. I already have the scene outlined in my mind, it just wasn't right for the situation. and I guess this opens the possibility for a part 2. thank you so much for reading 💛

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